IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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begin 
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sion, 
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illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

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32X 


1 

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6 

POPULAR   NOVELS. 


By  May  Agnes  Fleming. 


I.— GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 
II.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 
III.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET.    {Tn  Press.) 


"Mrs.  Fleming's  stories  are  growing  more  and  more  popu- 
lar every  day.    Their  delineations  of  character, 
life-like  conversations,  flashes  of  wit,  con- 
stantly varying  scenes,  and  deeply  in- 
teresting plots,  combine  to  place 
their  author  in  the  very  flrst 
rank  of  Modern 
NovelistB." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.     Price  91-76 
each,  and  sent  free  by  mail,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

G.  W.  CARIiETON  &  CO., 
New  York. 


\ 


Wonderful  Woman. 


%  ioijti. 


MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 

AUTHOR  OF 

••Guy  Earlscourt's  Wife,"  "A  Terriblb  Secret,"  Etc,  Etc.,  Etc^ 


NEW    YORK: 
G.    W.    Carleton   ^   Co,,    Publishers, 

LONDON:    S.    LOW   SON   &   CO. 
M.DCCC.LXXIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  bjr 

G.  W,  CARLETON  &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


John  V.  Trow  &  Son,  Printers, 
30S-213  East  isth  St.,  Nbw  York. 


Jo  pg  gtitntt,' 

^ARA     JIaMIUTON     J^EMON, 


In  Memory  op  thb  Pleasant  Winter  Afternoons  Si'ent  Togethei 


WHILST  IT  WAS   BEING  WRITTEN, 


THIS  book  is  affectionately 


DSDICATBD. 


CH 


.i*C^ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  '*<•■ 

I.  — Katherine 9 

II. — Mrs.  Vavasor ...  23 

III. — Among  the  Roses 36 

IV. — Love  under  the  Lamps 43 

v.— Before  Breakfast 47 

VI. — Askmg  in  Marriage 56 

VII.— The  Second  Warning 65 

VIIT._A  letter  from  New  Orleans 81 

.     IX,— The  Third  Warning 91 

X. — Before  the  Wedding 104 

XL— The  Wedding  Night 123 

XII.— The  Telling  of  the  Secret 136 

XIII. — Mrs.  Vavasor's  Story 144 

XIV.— Day  of  Wrath  I    Day  of  Grief  1 154 

XV.— "Deador  AUve" 166 

XVI.— Before  Midnight 179 

XVIL— ••  Resurgam" 192 

PART  II. 

I. — La  Reine  Blanche 207 

II. — Miss  Hemcastle *^,\/. . .  221 

III. — Sir  Arthur  Tregeima , .  ,'^ . . . .  235 

IV. — At  Scarswood 240 

V. — "  Once  more  the  Gate  behind  me  falls" 253 

VI. — Something  very  strange 262 

VII. — ••  There  is  many  a  Slip,"  etc 27a 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  FACE 

VIII.— Redmond  O'DonneU 283 

IX.— Six  Years  before 29a 

X.— An  Irish  Idyl 300 

XL— Its  English  Reading 314 

XII.—"  The  Battle  of  Fontenoy  " 326 

XIII. — The  Mystery  of  Bracken  Hollow 337 

XIV.— Under  the  King's  Oak 353 

XV.— "As  in  a  Glass,  darkly" 362 

XVI.— The  Story  of  the  Ivory  Miniature. 377 

XVII.— The  Scar  on  the  Temple 391 

XVIII.— Rose  O'Donnell's  Secret 403 

XIX.— Knight  and  Page 416 

XX.— A  Dark  Night's  Work 432 

XXL— The  Length  of  hiis  Tether 437 

XXIL— After  the  Masquerade 445 

XXIIL— "Six  Years  too  Late" , 457 

XXI  v.— A  Chapter  of  Wonders 474 

XXV.— The  Last  Link 487 

XXVL— Hunted  Down 497 

XXVIL— That  Night 509 

XXVIII.—"  Not  I,  but  Fate,  hath  dealt  this  Blow" 524 

XXIX.— How  it  ended 533 


A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 


CHAPTER  I. 


KATHERINE. 


HE  large,  loud-voiced  clock  over  the  stables  struck 
nine,  and  announced  to  all  whom  it  might  concern 
that  the  breakfast-hour  of  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  Bar- 
onet, of  Scarswood  Park,  Sussex,  had  arrived. 

Scarswood  Park  !  A  glorious  old  place,  lying  deep  down  in 
the  green  heart  of  a  Sussex  woodland  !  A  glorious  old  place, 
where  the  rare  red  deer  disported  amid  the  emerald  glades,  and 
dusky,  leafy  aisles  of  the  oak  and  beech  !  A  vast  and  stately 
park,  sloping  down  to  the  tawny  sea-shore,  and  a  vast  and 
stately  mansion,  its  echoing  turrets  rising  high  above  the  tower- 
ing oak  and  copper  beeches,  and  its  eastern  windows  sparkling 
in  the  red  sunlight  of  this  bright  September  morning  like 
sparks  of  fire ! 

Within  and  without  the  great  house  was  very  still ;  a  break- 
fast-table, sparkling  with  crystal,  rich  with  rough  old  silver,  gay 
with  tall  glasses  of  September  roses,  and  snowy  with  naperj', 
stood  ready  and  waiting  in  a  spacious  room. 

Through  the  open  windows  the  sweet,  hay-scented  morning 
wind  blew,  and  far  off  you  caught  in  the  summer  stillness  the 
soft  wash  of  the  waves  on  the  yellow  sands,  more  than  a  mile 
away. 

At  the  last  chime  of  the  loud-voiced  clock  the  door  opened, 
and  Sir  John  Dangerfield  came  into  the  room.  A  silver-toned 
French  time-piece  on  the  marble  mantel  began  a  tinkling  waltz, 
IJreparatory  to  repeating  the  hour ;  the  birds,  in  their  gilded 
cages,  sang  blithely  their  welcome  ;  but  the  baronet  glanced 
impatiently  around  in  search  of  something  or  somebody  else. 

"Not  down  yet,"  he  said.  "That's  not  like  Katherine  I 
1* 


lO 


KA  THERINE. 


She  is  not  used  to  dissipation,  and  I  suppose  last  night's  concert 
has  made  her  lazy  th  s  morning.  Tliomas," — to  a  footman, 
appearing  like  a  tall  plush  specter  in  the  doorway — *'  tell  Miss 
Katherine's  maid  that  J  am  waiting  breakfast.  Has  the  Times 
arrived?" 

"  Yes,  Sir  John." 

Thomas  presented  the  folded  Thunderer  to  his  master,  and 
vanished. 

Sir  John  Dangerfield  flung  himself  into  an  easy-chair,  that 
groaned  in  every  joint  with  his  three  hundred  pounds  of  man- 
hood, and  opened  the  damp  London  paper,  perfuming  the  room 
with  the  smell  of  printers'  ink.  He  was  a  tall,  portly  gent'e- 
man,  this  Sussex  baronet,  with  a  handsome,  florid  face,  and  an 
upright,  military  bearing.  For  three  months  only  had  he  reigned 
master  of  Scarswood  ;  three  lives  had  stood  between  him  and  the 
baronetcy,  and,  a  colonel  in  the  Honorable  East  India  Com- 
pany's Service,  he  had,  four  months  before  this  sunny  September 
morning,  about  as  much  idea  of  ever  lording  it  in  Scarswood 
Hall  as  he  had  of  ever  sitting  on  the  throne  of  England.  Sud- 
denly, and  as  if  a  fatality  were  at  work,  these  three  lives  had 
been  removed,  and  Colonel  Dangerfield,  of  her  Majesty's  H. 
E.  I.  C.  S.,  became  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  of  Scarswood  Park, 
and,  with  his  daughter  and  heiress,  came  back  to  England  for 
the  first  time  in  fifteen  years.  He  was  a  widower,  and  Miss 
Dangerfield,  his  daughter,  his  heiress,  his  idol,  had  been  born 
in  England,  and  was  two  years  old  when  her  father  had  first 
gone  out  to  India,  and  grown  up  to  be  nearly  seventeen  before 
she  ever  set  foot  upon  English  soil  again. 

He  unfolded  his  paper,  but  he  did  not  read.  The  loud  sing- 
ing of  the  birds,  the  dazzling  brightness  of  the  summer  morning, 
disturbed  him,  perhaps.  It  dropped  on  his  knee,  and  his  eyes 
turned  on  the  emerald  lawn,  on  the  tangled  depths  of  fern  and 
bracken,  on  the  dark  expanse  of  waving  woodland — terrace, 
lawn,  and  coppice,  all  bathed  in  the  glorious  golden  light. 

*'  A  fair  prospect,"  he  said — **  a  princely  inheritance  !  And 
to  think  that  four  months  ago  I  was  grilling  alive  in  Calcutta, 
with  no  earthly  hope  but  that  of  retiring  one  day  from  the 
Company's  service  with  chronic  liver  complaint,  and  a  colonel's 
half-pay.  For  myself  it  would  not  matter  :  but  for  Katherine ! " 
His  face  changed  suddenly.  "  If  I  only  could  be  certain  she 
were  dead  1  If  I  only  could  be  certain  my  secret  was  buried 
with  her !  It  never  mattered  before — we  were  out  of  her  reach ; 
but  since  my  accession  to  Scarswood,  since  my  return  to  Eng- 


KATHERINE. 


II 


land,  that  wretch's  memory  has  haunted  me  like  an  evil  spirit. 
Only  last  night  I  dreamed  of  her — dreamed  I  saw  her  evil 
black  eyes  gleaming  upon  me  in  this  room.     Paugh  I " 

A  shudder  of  disgust — a  look  of  abhorrence  ;  then  he  lifted 
the  paper  again — and  again  he  dropped  it. 

A  door  far  above  closed  with  a  bang ;  a  fresh  young  voice 
caroling  like  a  bird  ;  the  quick  patter,  patter,  patter,  of  little 
female  feet  downstairs — the  last  three  cleared  with  a  jump  ; 
and  then  the  door  of  the  breakfast-room  was  flung  wide,  and 
the  heiress  of  Scarswood  Park  flashed  into  the  room. 

Flashed — I  use  the  word  advisedly — flashed  in  like  a  burst 
of  sunshine — like  a  hillside  breeze — and  stood  before  her  father 
in  fluttering  white  muslin,  pink  ribbons  waving,  brown  hair  fly- 
ing, gray  eyes  dancing,  and  her  fresh,  sweet  voice  ringing  through 
the  room. 

"Good  morning,  papa ! "  Miss  Dangerfield  cried,  panting, 
and  out  of  breath,  "is  breakfast  ready  ?  I'm  perfectly  fam- 
ished, and  would  have  starved  to  death  in  bed  if  Ninon  had  not 
come  and  routed  me  out.  And  how  is  your  appetite,  papa? — 
and  I  hope  I  have  not  kept  you  waiting  too  long — and,  oh  1 
wasn't  the  concert  perfectly  de — licious  last  night !" 

And  then  two  white  arms  went  impetuously  around  the  neck 
of  the  Indian  officer,  and  two  fresh  rosy  lips  gave  him  a  kiss 
that  exploded  like  a  torpedo. 

Sir  John  disengaged  himself  laughingly  from  this  impulsive  em- 
brace. 

"  Gently,  gently,  Kathie  !  don't  quite  garrote  me  with  those 
long  arms  of  yours.  Stand  off  and  let  me  ae  how  you  look 
after  last  night's  dissipation.     A  perfect  wreck,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  Dissipation  !  A  perfect  wreck  !  Oh,  papa,  it  was  heavenly 
— just  that  I  I  shall  never  forget  that  tenor  singer — who  sang 
Fortunio's  song,  you  know,  papa,  with  his  splendid  eyes,  and 
the  face  of  a  Greek  god.  And  his  name — Gaston  Dantree — 
beautiful  as  himself.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  dissipation  and  a 
wreck ;  I  mean  to  go  again  to-night,  and  to-morrow  night,  and 
all  the  to-morrow  nights  while  those  concerts  are  given  by  the 
Talbots." 

She  stood  before  him,  gesticulating  rapidly,  with  the  golden 
morning  light  pouring  full  on  her  face. 

And  Miss  Katherine  Dangerfield,  heiress  and  heroine,  was 
beautiful,  you  say,  as  an  heiress  and  heroine  should  be  ?  I  am 
sorry  to  say  No.  The  young  ladies  of  the  neighborhood,  other- 
wise English  misses  with  pink  and  white  complexions,  and  per* 


KATHERINE. 


.7X_J 


% 


y\ 


feet  manners,  would  have  told  you  Katherine  Dangerfield  was 
lanky  and  overgrown,  had  sunburnt  hands  and  complexion,, 
too  small  a  nose,  and  too  large  a  month  and  chin.  Would 
have  told  you  her  forehead  was  low,  her  complexion  sallow, 
and  her  manners  perfectly  horrible.  She  was  boisterous,  she 
wa  >  a  hoyden,  she  said  whatever  came  uppermost  in  her  mind, 
was  utterly  spoiled  by  a  doting  father,  and  had  the  temper  of  a 
very  termagant.  They  would  probably  have  forgotten  to  men- 
tion— those  young  ladies — that  the  sallow  coinplexion  was  lit 
by  a  pair  of  loveliest  dark-g^ray  eyes,  that  the  tall,  supple  figure 
of  the  girl  of  seventeen  gave  lare  promise  of  statelv  and  majes- 
tic womanhood,  that  the  ever-ready  smile,  which  parted  the  rosy 
lips,  displayed  a  set  of  teeth  flashing  like  jewels. 

They  would  have  forgotten  to  mention  the  wonderful  fall  of 
bright  brown  hair,  dark  in  the  shadow,  red  gold  in  the  light,  and 
the  sweet  freshnessof  a  voice  so  silver-toned  that  all  who  heard 
it  paused  to  listen.  Not  handsome — you  would  never  have 
called  her  that — but  bright,  bright  and  blithe  as  the  summer 
sunshine  itself 

"  Well,  papa,  and  how  do  I  look  ?  Not  very  much  uglier 
than  usual,  I  hope.  Oh,  papa,"  the  girl  cried,  suddenly,  clasp- 
ing her  hands,  "why,  why,  tc//:^  wasn't  I  born  handsome?  I 
adore  beauty — pictures,  music,  sunshine,  flowers,  and — hand- 
some men  !  I  hate  women — I  hate  girls — vain,  malicious  mag- 
pies— spiteful  and  spiritless.  Why  don't  I  look  like  you,  papa, 
— you  handsome,  splendid  old  soldier  !  Why  was  I  born  with 
a  yellow  skin,  an  angular  figure,  and  more  arms  and  hands 
than  I  ever  know  what  to  do  with  ?  Whom  do  I  take  after  to 
be  so  ugly,  papa?  Not  after  you,  that's  clear.  Then  it  must 
be  after  mamnia  ?  " 

Miss  Dangerfield  had  danced  over  to  the  great  mirror  on  the 
mantel,  and  stood  gazing  discontentedly  at  her  own  image  in 
the  glass. 

Sir  John,  in  his  sunny  window-seat,  had  been  listening  with 
an  indulgent  smile,  folding  his  crackling  paper.  The  crackling 
suddenly  ceased  at  his  daughter's  last  words,  the  smile  died 
wholly  away. 

"  Say,  ]iapa,''  Katherine  cried,  impatiently,  "  do  I  look  like 
mamma  ?  1  never  saw  her,  you  know,  nor  her  picture,  nor  any- 
thing. If  I  do,  you  couldn't  have  been  over  and  above  partic- 
ular during  the  period  of  love's  young  dream.  Do  I  inherit  my 
tawny  complexion,  and  square  chin,  and  snub  nose,  and  low 
forehead  from  the  late  Mrs.  Colonel  Dangerfield  ?  " 


KATHERINE. 


13 


jerfield  was 
complexion,, 
in.  Would 
:ion  sallow, 
sterol!  s,  she 
n  her  mind, 
temper  of  a 
ten  to  men- 
xion  was  lit 
upple  figure 
and  majes- 
ted  the  rosy 

derful  fall  of 
he  light,  and 
11  who  heard 
never  have 
the  summer 

much  uglier 
denly,  clasp- 
ndsome  ?  I 
,  and — hand- 
ilicious  mag- 
:e  you,  papa, 
5  I  born  with 
s  and  hands 
take  after  to 
rhen  it  must 


Her  father  laid  down  his  paper,  and  arose.  * 

"  Come  to  breakfast,  Katherine,"  he  said,  more  coldly  than 
he  had  ever  spoken  to  her  before  in  his  life,  "  and  be  kind 
enough  to  drop  the  subject.  Your  flippant  manner  of  speaking 
.  of — of  your  mother,  is  positively  shocking.  I  am  afraid  it  is 
true  what  they  say  of  you  here — Indian  nurses — the  lack  of  a 
mother's  care — and  my  indulgence,  have  spoiled  you." 

"  Very  well,  papa  ;  then  the  fault's  yours  and  you  shouldn't 
blame  me.  The  what's-his-name  cannot  change  his  spots,  and 
I  can't  change  my  irreverent  nature  any  more  than  I  can  my 
looks.     But  really  and  truly,  papa,  do  I  look  like  mamma  ?  " 

•■  No — yes-^I  don't  know." 

•*  No — yes — I  don't  know.  Intelligible,  perhaps,  but  not  at 
all  satisfactory.  When  /am  left  a  widow,  I  hope  I  shall  remem- 
ber how  the  dear  departed  partner  of  my  existence  looked, 
even  after  thirteen  years.  Have  you  no  portrait  of  mamma, 
then  ?  " 

"  No  !  In  Heaven's  name,  Katherine,  eat  your  breakfast, 
and  let  me  eat  mine  ! " 

"  I  am  eating  my  breakfast,"  responded  his  daughter,  testily. 
"  I  suppose  a  person  can  talk  and  eat  'X  the  same  time. 
Haven't  you  rathei  got  a  pain  in  your  temper  this  morning, 
papa  ?  And  I  mu;>t  say  I  think  it  a  little  too  hard  that  I  can't 
be  told  wao  I  take  my  ugliness  from.  I'm  much  obliged  to 
them  for  the  inheritance,  whoever  they  were." 

Sir  John  again  laid  down  his  paper  with  a  resigned  sigh.  He 
knew  of  old  how  useless  it  was  to  try  and  stem  the  torrent  of 
his  daughter's  eloquence. 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  You're  not 
ugly — you  don't  want  your  father  to  pay  you  compliments,  do 
you,  Katherine  ?  I  thought  your  cousin  Peter  paid  you  enough 
last  night  to  satisfy  even  your  vanity  for  a  month." 

Katherine  shook  her  head  impatiently  until  all  its  red-brown 
tresses  flashed  again. 

"  Peter  Dangerfield — wretched  little  bore !  Yes,  he  paid  me 
compliments,  with  his  hideous  little  weasen  face  close  to  my 
ear  until  I  told  him  for  goodness  sake  to  hold  his  tongue,  and 
not  drive  me  frantic  with  his  idiotic  remarks  !  He  let  me  alone 
after  that,  and  sulked !  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  papa — if  some- 
thing is  not  done  to  prevent  him,  that  little  grinning  imbecile 
will  be  asking  me  to  marry  him  one  of  these  days — mark  my 
words  ! " 

"  Very  well — suppose  he  does  ?  "     The  baronet  leaned  back 


14 


KATHERINE. 


ill 
:ii 

li 

■H 


:iil 


ih  his  chair  and  raised  his  paper  nervously  before  his  face. 
"  Suppose  he  does,  Kathie — what  then  ?  " 

"What  then!"  The  young  lady  could  but  just  repeat  the 
words  in  her  amaze  and  indignation.  "  What  then  !  Sir  John 
Danger'^eUl — do  you  mean  to  insult  me,  sir?  Put  down  that 
paper  this  instant,  and  look  the  person  you're  talking  to  full  in 
the  face,  and  repeat  *  what  then^  if  you  dare  ! " 

"  Well,  Kathie,"  the  baronet  said,  still  tidgeting  with  his  paper 
screen  and  not  looking  his  excited  little  commanding  oflicer  in 
the  face,  "  Peter's  not  handsome,  I  know,  nor  dashing,  but  he's 
a  clever  little  fellow,  and  my  nephew,  and  in  love  with  you, 
and  will  make  you  a  much  better  husbanc',  my  dear,  than  a 
much  betier-looking  man.  Handsome  men  are  always  vain  as 
peacocks,  and  so  deeply  in  love  with  themselves  that  they 
never  have  room  in  their  conceited  hearts  and  empty  heads  to 
love  any  one  else.  Don't  be  romantic,  my  dear — you'll  not 
find  heroes  anywhere  now  except  in  Mudie's  novels.  Peter's  a 
clever  little  fellow,  as  I  said,  and  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  you." 

"  A  clever  little  fellov  \  A  clever  little  fellow,"  repeated 
Miss  Dangerfield,  with  intense  concentrated  scorn.  "Papa," 
with  dignity,  "  a  few  minutes  ago  you  told  me  to  change  the 
subject.  /  make  the  same  remark  now.  I  wouldn't  marry 
your  clever  little  fellow  not  to  save  my  own  head  from  the  gal- 
lows or  his  soul  from  perdition.  Sir  John,  I  consider  myself 
doubly  insulted  this  morning  !  1  don't  wonder  you  sit  there 
excruciating  my  nerves  with  that  horrid  rattling  paper  and 
ashamed  to  look  me  in  the  face.  I  think  you  have  reason  to 
be  ashamed  !  Telling  your  only  child  and  heiress  she  couldn't 
do  better  than  throw  herself  away  on  a  pitiful  little  country 
lawj  ar,  only  five  feet  high,  and  with  the  countenance  of  a  rat. 
If  it  were  that  adorable  Gaston  Dantree  now.  Oh,  here's  the 
post.     Prpa!  papa!  give  me  the  ke}-." 

Miss  Dangerfield  forgetting  in  a  second  the  late  outrage 
offered  her  by  her  cruel  parent  seized  the  key,  unlocked  the 
bag,  and  plunged  in  after  its  contents, 

"  One — two — three — four  !  two  for  me  from  India — one  fo? 
you  from  ditto,  in  Major  Trevanion's  big  slap-dash  fist,  and  this 
— Why,  p?pa,  what  lady  correspondent  can  you  have  in  Paris? 
What  an  elegant  Italian  hpnd!  what  thick  yellow  perfumed 
paper,  and  what  a  sentimental  seal  and  motto !  Blue  wax  and 
'■  pensez  h  moi^     Now,  papa,  who  can  this  be  from  ?  " 

She  threw  the  letter  across  the  table.     Wiih  her  first  words 


\ 


A' A  THERINE. 


15 


the  face  of  the  Indian  officer  had  changed — a  hunted  look  of 
absolute  terror  had  come  into  his  face. 

His  hands  tightened  over  th«  paper,  his  eyes  fixed  themselves 
upon  the  dainty  missive  his  daughter  held  before  them,  his  florid, 
healthful  color  faded — a  dull  grayish  whiteness  crept  over  his 
face  from  brow  to  chin, 

"  Papa  ! "  Katherine  cried,  "  you're  sick,  you're  going  to 
have  a  fit !  Don't  tell  me  !  can't  I  see  it  ?  Drink  this — drink 
it  this  moment  and  come  round  ! " 

She  held  a  glass  of  water  lo  his  lips.  He  obeyed  mechani- 
cally, and  the  color  that  had  faded  and  fled,  slowly  crept  back 
to  his  bearded,  sun-browned  face.  "  There  !  "  said  Miss  Dan- 
gerfield,  in  a  satisfied  tone,  "you  have  come  round  !  And  now 
tell  me,  was  it  a  fit,  or  was  it  the  letter  ?  Tell  me  the  truth, 
sir ;  don't  prevaricate  ! " 

"  It  was  one  of  my  old  attacks,  Kathie,  nothing  more.  You 
ought  to  be  used  to  them  by  this  time.  Nothing  more,  I  give 
you  my  word.  Go  back  to  your  breakfast,  cnild,"  he  said  tes- 
tily, "and  don't  stand  staring  there  in  that  uncomfortable  way  !" 

"  My  opinion  is,  pa])a,"  responded  Miss  Dangerfield,  with 
gravity,  "  that  you're  in  a  bad  way  and  should  turn  your  attention 
immediately  from  the  roast  beef  of  old  England  to  water  gruel 
and  weak  tea.  A  fine  old  English  gentleman  of  your  time  of 
day,  who  has  left  his  liver  behind  him  in  India,  and  who  has  a 
Sepoy  bullet  lodged  for  life  in  his  left  lung,  and  a  strong  ten- 
dency to  apoplexy  besides,  ought  to  mind  what  he  eats  and 
drinks,  and  be  on  very  friendly  terms  with  the  nearest  clergy- 
men. Aren't  you  going  to  read  that  letter,  papa,  and  tell  me 
who  the  woman  is  who  has  the  presumption  to  write  to  you 
without  my  knowledge?  Now  where  are  you  going?"  For 
Sir  John  had  arisen  hastily,  his  letters  in  his  hand. 

"  To  my  study,  Kathie.  Finish  your  breakfast,  darling,  and 
don't  mind  me."  He  stooped  down  suddenly  and  kissed  her, 
with  almost  passionate  tenderness.  "  My  darling  !  my  dar- 
ling !  "  he  said.  "  Heaven  bless  and  keep  you  always,  what- 
ever happens — whatever  happens." 

He  repeated  the  last  words  with  a  sort  of  anguish  in  his 
voice,  then  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  breakfast  parlor  be- 
fore his  very  much  amazed  daughter  could  speak. 

"  Well ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Dangerfield  at  last,  "  this  does  cap 
the  universe,  doesn't  it?"  This  question  being  addressed  to 
vacancy  received  no  reply.  "  There's  a  mystery  here,  and  I 
don't  like  mysteries  out  of  sensation  novels.     I  have  no  secrets 


m 


KATHERINE. 


from  papa — what  business  has  papa  to  have  secrets  from 
me?"  . 

She  arose  with  an  injured  air,  gave  the  bell  a  vicious  pull, 
and  walked  in  offended  dignity  back  to  her  room.  The  broad, 
black,  slippery  oaken  staircase  went  up  in  majestic  sweeps  to 
the  regions  above.  Miss  Dangerfield  ascended  it  slowly  and 
with  a  face  of  perplexed  thought. 

"  It  was  never  an  attack — don't  tell  me — it  was  that  nasty, 
vicious,  spidery  written  little  letter  !  Now  what  woman  wrote 
that  letter,  and  what  business  had  she  to  write  it  ?  I  shall  insist 
upon  papa  giving  me  a  full  explairUion  at  dinner-time.  No 
woman  in  Paris  or  any  other  wicked  city  shall  badger  my  pre- 
cious old  soldier  into  an  early  grave.  And  meantime  I  shall 
have  a  gallop  on  llderim  over  the  golden  Sussex  downs." 

She  entered  her  room  singing  the  song  the  handsome  tenor 
had  sung  at  the  concert  the  night  before,  the  melody  of  whose 
silver  voice,  the  dusky  fire  of  whose  eyes,  the  dark  foreign 
beauty  of  whose  face,  had  haunted  her  romantic  seventeen-year- 
old  mind  ever  since.  --- '         '  - 

"  Rispondia  a  chi  t' implora ! 
Rispondia  a  cara  a  mc  1 " 

"  How  handsome  he  was,  how  handsome — how  handsome  ! 
If  ever  I  marry,  it  shall  be  a  man — a  demi-god  like  that.  Peter 
Dangerfield,  indeed  !  Nasty  little  bore  !  Still  I  would  rather 
have  him  in  love  with  me  than  have  no  one  at  all.  I  wonder 
if  it  is  I,  myself,  he  loves,  or  Scarswood  Park,  and  the  heiress 
of  eight  thousand  a  year.  Ninon  !  my  green  riding-habit,  and 
tell  them  to  fetch  llderim  around.  And  oh,  Ninon,  my  child,  tell 
that  tiresome  groom  Idofitv^dSiX.  him  perambulating  behind  me, 
like  an  apoplectic  shadow,  llderim  and  I  can  take  care  of 
ourselves." 

"  But,  mademoiselle — Seer  John's  orders — ^" 

"  Ninon  Duclos,  will  you  do  as  /order  yon  ?  I  won't  have 
the  groom — there  !  I'm  always  shocking  the  resident  gentry 
of  this  neighborhood,  and  I  mean  to  go  on  shocking  them.  I 
feel  as  if  1  had  a  spy  at  my  heels  while  that  beef-eating 
groom  is  there.  Help  me  on  with  my  habit  and  say  no  more 
about  it." 

Little  Ninon  knew  a  good  deal  better  than  to  dispute  Miss 
Dangerfield's  mood  when  Miss  Dangerfield  spoke  in  that  tone. 
Miss  Dangerfield  had  boxed  her  ears  before  now,  and  was  very 
capable  of  doing  it  again.     Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  smart  little  t 
Ninon  rather  liked  having  her  ears  impetuously  slapped  by  her  # 


KATHERINE. 


17 


no  more 


impulsive  young  mistress,  and  the  tingling  cured,  as  it  invariably 
was,  by  the  present  of  Miss  Katherine's  second-best  silk  dress 
half-an-hour  after. 

Looking  very  bright  and  dashing,  if  not  in  the  least  pretty, 
the  heiress  of  Scarswood  Park  ran  lightly  down  the  slippery 
stairs,  out  of  the  vast  vaulted  hall,  where  statues  gleamed  and 
suits  of  mail  worn  by  dead-and-gone  Dangerfields  centuries  be- 
fore, flashed  back  the  sunshine.  Her  dark -green  riding-habit 
fitted  her,  as  Katherine  herself  said,  "as  though  she  had  been 
born  in  it," — the  waving  brightness  of  her  brown  hair  was 
twined  in  thick  plaits  around  her  graceful  head,  and  her  pork- 
pie  hat  with  its  scarlet  bird's-wing  perched  ever  so  little  on  one 
side,  set  off  the  piquante  face  beneath — a  thoroughly  English 
face,  despite  the  golden  hue  of  a  tropic  sun. 

"I  beg  your  parding,  miss,"  Roberts,  the  butler,  said,  step- 
ping forward.  He  was  a  dignified,  elderly,  clerical-looking  per- 
sonage, like  an  archbishop  in  silk  stockings  and  knee  breeches ; 
"but  if  you  will  hexcuse  the  remark,  miss,  I  thinks  as  ow  we're 
going  to  'ave  a  storm.  There's  that  closeness  in  the  hair,  miss, 
and  that  happearance  in  the  hatmosphere  that  halways  per- 
ceeds  a  thunder-storm.;  if  I  might  make  so  bold  miss,  I  should 
hadvise  you  not  to  stay  hout  more  than  a  hour,  at  the  furthest." 

"  Good  gracious,  Roberts,  what  nonsense !  There's  not  a 
cloud  in  the  sky.  Oh,  well !  that  one  !  why  it's  no  bigger  than 
my  hand.  I'm  going  to  Castleford,  and  I  don't  believe  in  your 
thunder-storms." 

"  You'll  catch  it,  though,  for  all  that,  my  young  lady,"  solilo- 
quized Mr.  Roberts,  looking  after  the  slight  girlish  figure  as  it 
dashed  out  of  sight  down  the  elm  avenue  mounted  on  a  spirited 
black  horse.  "  Great  storms  'ave  come  from  clouds  no  bigger 
than  a  man's  'and  before  now.  But  you're  a  young  persing 
that  won't  be  hadvised,  and  you'll  come  to  grief  one  of  these 
days  through  'aving  too  much  of  your  own  way,  as  sure  as  my 
name's  Roberts." 

And  then  Mr.  Roberts  philosophically  went  back  to  the 
Castleford  Chronicle,  and  never  dreamed  that  he  had  attered  a 
prophecy. 

Miss  Dangerfield  dashed  away  over  th^^;  breezy  Sussex  downs 
— gold-green  in  the  September  sunshine.  But  the  brilliance  of 
that  sunlight  grew  dim  and  dimmer  with  every  passing  moment, 
and  looking  up  presently  she  saw  that  her  "  cloud  no  bigger 
than  a  man's  hand"  had  spread  and  darkened,  and  was  fast 
glooming  over  the  whole  sky.    Old  Roberts  had  been  right  then, 


/CATHERINE. 


*  1 


HI 


after  all ;  and  unless  she  stayed  at  Castleford,  or  turned  back 
at  once,  she  was  in  for  a  drenching. 

"  I  7uc>n'f  turn  back  and  I  won'f  stop  at  Castleford,"  the  bar- 
onet's daughter  said,  setting  her  white  teeth.  "  I'll  get  my 
books,  and  I'll  go  home,  and  Ilderim  and  I  shall  outstrip  the 
lightning  after  all." 

She  dashed  into  the  town.  Castleford  was  a  military  depot, 
and  knots  of  red-coated  officers  grouped  here  and  there,  lowered 
their  crests,  and  gazed  after  her  with  admiring  eyes  as  she  flew 

by- 

"  Plucky  girl  that,"  said  Captain  Vere  de  Vere  of  the  Plung- 
ers Purple  to  his  friend  Captain  Howard  of  the  Bobtails  Blue. 
"  Gad  !  how  squarely  she  sits  her  saddle.  And  what  a  waltzer 
she  is — as  graceful  as  a  Parisienne  ballerina,  and  as  springy. 
Comfortable  thing  there  waiting  for  some  lucky  beggar — clear 
eight  thousand  a  year,  and  strictly  entailed.  Not  a  handsome 
girl,  I  admit,  but  what  would  you  ?  Doosidly  clever,  too,  and 
7/iaiCs  a  drawback.  I  hate  your  clever,  women — put  a  fellow  out 
of  countenance,  by  Jove  !  Shouldn't  know  anything — women 
shouldn't,  beyond  the  three  great  feminine  arts,  dancing,  dress- 
ing, and  lookmg  pretty."  With  which  terse  summary  of  women 
duties  the  Honorable  Plantagenet  Vere  de  Vere  lit  his  huge 
manilla  and  sauntered  away.  "  She  seemed  uncommonly  sweet 
on  that  foreigner,  that  Creole  fellow — what's  his  name — at  the 
concert  last  night,"  he  thought.  "It's  always  fellows  like  that- 
with  tenor  voices  and  long  eyelashes,  that  draw  the  matrimo- 
nial prizes.  Heard  her  tell  Edith  Talbot  last  night  all  the  offi, 
cers  at  Castleford  had  ginger  whiskers,  and  knew  no  more  how 
to  waltz  than  so  many  lively  young  elephants." 

Miss  Dangerfield's  errand  was  to  a  Castleford  bookseller's, 
and  her  order  was  for  al^  the  newest  novels.  She  came  out 
presently,  followed  by  the  obsequious  shopman  carrying  her 
parce*  and  bowing  his  thanks.  The  storm  was  very  near  now. 
The  whole  sky  was  dark — there  was  that  oppressive  heat  and 
stillness  in  the  air  that  usually  precedes  a  thunder-storm. 

"  Coming  ! "  Miss  Dangerfield  thought,  vaulting  into  her  sad- 
dle. **  Now  then,  Ilderim,  my  beauty,  my  darling,  outstrip  the 
storm  if  you  can  ! " 

She  was  oft"  like  the  wind,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  town  lay 
far  behind. her.  But  fate  had  decreed  to  take  sides  with  Rob- 
erts. 

On  the  bare  downs,  treeless  and  houseless,  the  lightning 
leaped  out  like  a  two-edged  sword.     There  came  the  booming 


KATHERINE. 


19 


crash  of  thunder,  then  a  deluge  of  rain,  and  the  mid-day  sum. 
mer  tempest  was  upoi  her  in  its  might.  The  swift,  sudden 
blaze  of  the  lightning  in  his  eyes  startled  the  nervous  system  of 
Ilderim.  He  tossed  his  little  black  Arabian  head  in  the  air 
with  a  snort  of  terror,  made  a  bound  forward  and  fled  over  the 
grassy  plains  with  the  speed  of  an  express  train. 

**  A  runaway,  by  Jove  ! " 

A  man  darted  forward  with  the  cry  upon  his  lips,  and  made 
the  agile  spring  of  a  wild-cat  at  Ilderim' s  bridle  rein.  A  mo- 
ment's struggle  and  then  the  spirited  Arab  stood  still  under  the 
grasp  of  an  iron  hand,  quivering  in  every  limb,  and  his  mis- 
tress, looking  down  from  her  saddle,  met  full  two  of  the  most 
beautiful  eyes  into  which  it  had  ever  been  her  good  fortune  to 
look. 

It  was  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree,  the  handsome,  silver-voiced 
tenor  of  last  night's  concert,  and  a  flash  )f  glad  surprise  lit  up 
her  face. 

"Mr.  Dantree  !  "  she  cried,  "you  !  and  in  this  ♦iempest,  and 
at  so  opportune  a  moment.  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  save — 
for  rendering  me  such  very  timely  assistance  ?  " 

"  For  saving  my  life,"  she  had  been  going  to  say,  but  that 
would  have  been  coming  it  a  little  too  strong.  Her  life  had 
not  been  in  the  smallest  danger — she  was  a  thorough  horse- 
woman, and  could  have  managed  a  much  wilder  animal  than 
Ilderim.  But  the  knight  to  the  rescue  was  Mr.  Dantree,  and 
last  night  Miss  Dangerfield  had  looked  for  the  first  time  into 
those  wondrous  eyes  of  gold-brown  light  and  fallen  straight  in 
love  with  their  owner. 

He  was  very  handsome ;  perfectly,  faultlessly  handsome, 
with  an  olive  complexion,  a  low  forehead,  a  chiselled  nose,  a 
thick  black  mustache,  and  two  dark  almond  eyes,  of  "liquid 
light."  Not  tall,  not  stout,  not  very  manly-looking,  perhaps, 
in  any  way,  men  were  rather  given  to  sneer  at  Mr.  Gaston 
Dantree's  somewhat  effeminate  beauty.  But  they  never  sneered 
long.  There  was  that  in  Mr.  Dantree's  black  eyes,  in  Mr. 
Dantree's  musical  voice,  in  Mr.  Dantree's  trained  muscles>  that 
would  have  rendered  a  serious  difficulty  a  little  unpleasant.  He 
took  off"  his  hat  now,  despite  the  pouring  rain,  and  stood  before 
the  heiress  of  Scarswood,  looking  like  the  Apollo  himself  in  a 
shabby  shooting  jacket. 

"  You  do  me  too  much  honor.  Miss  Dangerfield ;  I  don't  really 
think  your  life  was  in  any  danger — still  it's  pleasant  to  know 
/  was  the  one  to  stop  your  black  steed  all  the  same.     Rather 


20 


KATHERINE. 


a  coincidence,  by  the  bye,  that  I  should  meet  you  here  just  at 
present,  as,  taking  advantage  of  last  night's  kind  invitation,  I 
was  about  to  present  myself  at  Scarsvvood." 

"And  Scarswood  is  very  well  worth  seeing,  I  assure  you. 
As  it  is  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  gates,  suppose 
you  resume  your  hat  and  your  journey  ?" 

"But,  Miss  Dangerfield,  you  will  get  your  death  at  this  pace, 
in  this  downpour." 

"Oh,  no,  I'll  not,"  Katherine  answered  coolly.     "The  rain- 
will  never  fall  that  will  give  me  my  death !     You  don't  know 
how  strong  I  am.     Come,  Mr.  Dantree,  let  me  see  if  you  can 
walk  as  fast  as  Ilderim." 

She  looked  down  a  t  him  with  that  brilliant  smile  that  lit  her 
dark  face  into  something  brighter  than  beauty. 

"Come,  Mr.  Dantree,"  she  repeated,  "let  me  be  cicerone 
for  once,  and  show  you  the  splendors  of  Scarsvvood.  It  is  the 
show  place  of  the  neighborhood,  you  know,  built  by  a  Danger- 
field,  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  many  centuries  ago.  We  came 
over  with  William,  the  what's-his-name,  you  know,  or,  perhaps, 
William  found  us  here  when  he  arrived ;  I'm  not  positive  which. 
We're  a  dreadfully  old  family,  indeed,  and  I'm  the  last  daughter 
of  the  race;  and  I  wouldn't  be  anybody  but  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfield, of  Scarswood  Park,  for  the  world  ! " 

She  dashed  under  the  huge  stone  arch  of  masonry  as  she 
spoke,  half  laughing,  wholly  in  earnest.  She  was  i)roud  of  the 
old  blood  that  flowed  so  spiritedly  in  her  veins,  of  this  noble 
mansion,  of  the  princely  inheritance  which  was  her  birthright. 

"Welcome  to  Scarswood,  Mr.  Dantree,"  she  said,  as  he 
passed  by  her  side  under  the  Norman  arch. 

He  raised  his  hat. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Dangerfield,"  he  said  gravely ;  and  so, 
still  by  her  side,  walked  up  the  drippling  elm  avenue  and  into 
the  house. 

His  fatal  beauty — fatal,  though  he  was  but  seven-and-twenty, 
to  many  women — had  done  its  work  once  more.  Her  own 
hand  had  brought  him  there,  her  own  voice  had  spoken  her 
sentence.  Gaston  Dantree  stood  under  the  roof  of  Scarswood 
Hall,  and,  until  her  dying  hour,  this  day  would  stand  out  dis- 
tinct from  all  other  days  in  Katherine  Dangerfield' s  life. 

Sir  John  sat  in  his  library  alone,  that  letter  from  Paris  still 
crushed  in  his  hand  as  though  it  had  been  a  serpent.  It  seemed 
a  very  harmless  serpent  at  first  sight ;  it  only  contained  these 
lines,  written  in  an  elegant,  flowing  Italian  chirography : 


y.i  \ 


KATJIERINE. 


21 


•'Paris,  September  23. 


"  My  Dear  Sir  John  Dancerfield  :  How  delightedly  my  pen 
writes  the  title  I  A  baronet  !  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  And  Scars- 
wood  Park  is  yours,  and  your  income  is  clcp'  eight  thousand  a  year.  Who 
could  have  hoped  it  ?  And  you're  back  in  Liigland,  and  la  petite — the  lit- 
tle Katherine.  Darling  little  Katherine  1  So  full  of  spirit  and  self-will, 
as  she  was  when  I  saw  her  last,  and  that  is  fifteen  years  ago.  Ah,  mon 
(lieu  !  fifteen  weary,  weary,  weary  years.  My  dear  baronet,  I  am  coming 
to  see  you  ;  I  know  you  will  be  enchanted.  On  the  third  of  October  you 
will  send  your  carriage  to  Castleford  Station  to  meet  the  7.20  London  ex- 
press and  ine.  And  your  servant  will  ask  for  Mrs.  Vavasor.  I  adapt  my 
names  as  I  do  my  conversation,  to  my  corrpany ;  and,  among  the  aristo- 
cratic county  families  of  Sussex,  let  me  be  aristocratic,  too.  Adieu,  my 
baronet,  for  the  present ;  and  allow  me  to  subscribe  myself  by  the  old  and, 
alas  !  plebeian  cognomen  of  Harriet  Harman. 

'*  P.  S. — Tell  my  pet,  Katherine,  I  am  coming.  Kiss  the  darling  child 
for  me." 


He  had  sat  for  hours  as  he  sat  now,  that  letter  crushed  in  his 
hand,  a  grayish  pallor  on  his  face,  his  eyes  looking  blankly  out 
at  the  drifting  rain,  at  the  tossing,  wind-blown  trees.  The  light- 
ning leaped  forth  at  intervals,  the  summer  thunder  broke  over 
the  roof,  the  summer  rain  beat  on  the  glass.  He  neither  saw 
nor  heard ;  he  sat  like  a  man  stunned  by  a  great  and  sudden 
blow. 

"  And  I  thought  her  dead,"  he  muttered  once.  "  I  hoped 
she  was  dead.  1  thought,  after  fifteen  years'  silence,  I  was 
safe ;  and  now — oh,  God !  will  the  wicked  wish  r'~ver  be 
granted  ?  " 

He  sat  there  still  as  he  had  sat  since  he  left  the  breakfast 
table,  when  the  door  was  flung  wide,  and  Katherine,  dripping 
like  a  mermaid,  stood  before  him.  . 

"  May  I  come  in,  papa,  or  have  you  fallen  asleep  ?  Do  you 
know  it  is  two  o'clock,  and  past  luncheon  time,  and  that  I 
have  brought  home  a  guest  ?  It's  Mr.  Dan  tree,  papa — you  re- 
member him,  you  know — and  he  wants  to  see  the  house,  and 
/want  j^«  to  be  civil  to  him.  He's  in  the  blue  drawing-room  ; 
and  while  I'm  changing  my  habit  I  wish  you  would  go  up  and 
entertain  him.  Papa!"  -She  broke  off  suddenly,  catching 
sight  of  his  altered  face.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  You  look 
Uke  your  own  ghost ! " 

He  rose  up  stiffly,  as  if  his  limbs  were  cramped,  crushing  the 
letter  more  tightly  still  in  his  hand.  He  turned  away  from  the 
window,  so  that  his  face  was  hidden  from  her,  as  he  answered : 

"  I  am  a  little  cold.     Who  did  you  say  was  waiting,  Kather- 


»«     i 


22 


MRS.    VAVASOR. 


ine  ?  Oh,  yes  ;  the  singing  man — Gaston  Dantree.  By  the 
bye,  Kathie,  tell  Harrison  to  prepare  one  of  the  front  chambers 
for  a — a  lady — an  old  friend  of  mine — who  is  coming  to  visit 
us.  She  will  be  here  on  the  evening  of  the  third  of  October 
next,  and  her  name  is  Mrs.  Vavasor." 


CHAPTER  II. 


MRS.   VAVASOR. 


HE  London  express,  due  at  Castleford  station  at  7.20, 
rushed  in  with  an  unearthly  shriek,  Hke  Sinbad's  black 
monster,  with  the  one  red,  fiery  eye.  There  were  five 
passengers  for  the  town — four  men  and  a  woman. 
The  train  disgorged  them  and  then  fled  away,  shrieking  once 
more,  into  the  black  October  night. 

A  wet  and  gusty  autumn  evening,  a  black  and  starless  sky 
frowning  down  upon  a  black  and  sodden  eartlt  A  bitter  blast 
blew  up  from  the  sea,  and  whirled  the  dead  leaves  in  drifts  be- 
fore it.  The  station,  dreary  and  isolated,  as  it  is  in  the  nature 
of  stations  to  be,  looked  drearier  than  ever  to-night.  Far  off 
the  lamps  of  the  town  glimmered  athwart  the  rain  and  fog, 
specks  of  light  in  the  eerie  gloom. 

The  four  male  passengers  who  had  quitted  the  train  hurried 
with  their  portmanteaus,  buttoned  to  the  chin,  and  with  hats 
slouched  forward  over  their  noses — honest  shopkeepers  of 
Castleford,  but  looking  villanously  brigandish  in  the  light  of 
the  station  lamps.  Only  the  female  passenger  remained,  and 
she  came  tripping  up  the  platform  with  a  little  satchel  in  her 
hand,  crisp  and  smiling,  to  the  chief  station  official. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  but  can  you  tell  me  if  the  carriag* 
from  Scarswood  Park  is  waiting  for  me  ?  " 

She  was  a  beautiful  little  woman.  Two  great  dark  eyes  of 
lustrous  light  beamed  up  in  the  official's  face,  and  a  smile  that 
lit  up  the  whole  station  with  its  radiance  dazzled  him.  She  had 
feathery  black  ringlets — she  had  a  brilliant  high  color — well,  a 
trifle  too  high,  probably,  for  some  fastidious  tastes — she  had 
teeth  white  and,  more  glistening  than  anything  the  official  had 
ever  seen  outside  a  dentist's  show-case — she  had  the  tiniest  lit- 


MRS.   VAVASOR, 


23 


tie  figure  in  the  world,  and  she  had — as  far  as  the  official  could 
judge,  for  the  glitter  of  her  whole  appearance — some  three-and- 
tliirty  years.  With  the  flash  of  her  white  teeth,  the  sparkle  of 
the  black  eyes,  the  glow  of  the  rose-red  cheeks,  she  dazzled 
you  like  a  sudden  burst  of  sunlight,  and  you  never  stopped  to 
think  until  afterward  how  sharp  and  rasping  was  the  voice  in 
which  she  addressed  you. 

The  carriage  from  Scarswood  ?  No,  it  had  not — that  is  to 
say  the  official  did  not  know  whether  it  had  or  not. 

Would  the  lady  be  pleased  to  sit  down  ?  there  was  a  fire  in 
here,  and  he  would  go  and  ascertain. 

"  I  certainly  expected  to  find  it  waiting,"  the  little  lady  said, 
tripping  lightly  after  him.  "  Sir  John  knows  I  am  coming  to- 
night. He  is  such  an  old  friend  of  mine — Sir  John.  It's  odd 
now  the  carriage  isn't  waiting — tell  them  when  they  do  come, 
Mrs.  Vavasor  is  here." 

"  The  carriage  has  come,"  announced  the  official  on  the  mo- 
ment.    "This  way,  madame,  if  you  please." 

The  close  carriage,  its  lamps  glowing  like  two  red  eyes  in 
the  darkness,  its  horses  pawing  the  ground,  its  coachman  stiff 
and  surly  on  the  box,  was  drawn  up  at  the  station  door.  The 
official  held  the  door  open — she  thanked  him  with  a  radiant 
smile,  and  then  Sir  John  Dangerfield's  carriage  was  flying 
through  the  darkness  of  the  wet  October  night  over  the  muddy 
high  road  to  Scarswood  Park.  Little  Mrs.  Vavasor  wiped  the 
blurred  glass,  and  strained  her  bright  black  eyes  as  the  vehicle 
whirled  up  the  avenue,  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  house. 
It  loomed  up  at  last,  a  big  black  shadow  in  the  darkness. 
Lights  gleamed  all  along  its  front  windows,  and  the  distant 
sound  of  music  floated  out  into  the  night.  Mrs.  Vavasor's 
fascinating  face  was  at  its  brightest — the  sparkle  in  her  eyes 
sparkled  more  than  ever. 

"A  party — a  ball  perhaps.  Let  me  see,  the  third  of  Octo- 
ber— why  la  petals  birthday,  of  course.  Miss  Dangerfield, 
Heiress  of  Scarswood,  is  just  seventeen  to-night.  How  stupid 
of  me  to  forget  it."  She  laughed  in  the  darkness  and  solitude, 
a  little  low  laugh  not  pleasant  to  hear.  "  I  wonder  how  poor 
dear  Sir  John  will  meet  me,  and  what  account  he  will  give  of 
me  to  his  daughter?  It  couldn't  have  been  pleasant  for  him 
to  receive  my  note.     I  dare  say  by  this  time  he  thought  me 

She  stepped  out  a  moment  in  the  rain,  then  into  the  lighted 
v  jstibule,  then  into  the  spacious  entrance  hall,  where  Mrs.  Har- 


f  I 


24 


MRS.    VAyASOR. 


rison,  in  a  gray  silk  gown  and  white  lace  cap,  and  all  the  di^ 
nity  of  housekeeper,  met  her  courtesy. 

"Mrs.  Vavasor,  I  think,  ma'am?" 

Mrs.  Vavasor's  enchanting  smile  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"Sir  John's  orders  are  every  attention,  ma'am,  and  he  was 
to  be  told  the  minute  you  arrived.  This  way,  if  you  please, 
and  you're  to  wait  here,  ma'ani,  until  he  comes  to  you." 

She  led  the  way  upstairs,  and  threw  open  the  door  of  a  half- 
lit,  elegant  apartment,  all  bright  with  upholstery,  curtains,  and 
carpet  of  blue  and  gold. 

"  How  very  nice,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  remarked,  glancing  pleas- 
antly around ;  "  and  you  are  the  housekeeper,  1  suppose,  my 
good  soul  ?  And  your  young  lady  is  having  a  party  on  her 
birth-night?  How  pleasr  't  it  must  be  to  be  only  seventeen, 
and  handsome,  and  rich,  and  a  baronet's  daughter." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  that  sharp  little  laugh  of  hers  that 
rather  grated  on  sensitive  ears. 

"Miss  Dangerfield  is  handsome,  no  doubt,  Mrs.-      -ah — " 

"  Harrison,  ma'am,"  the  housekeeper  responded,  rather  stiffly. 
"And  Miss  Katherine  is  very  'andsome,  indeed,  in  my  eyes. 
I'll  tell  Sir  John  you're  here,  ma'am,  at  once,  if  you'll  please  sit 
down." 

But  it  pleased  Mrs.  Vavasor  to  stand — she  turned  up  the 
lamps  until  the  room  was  flooded  with  light,  then  walked  over 
to  a  full-length  mirror  and  looked  at  herself  steadily  and  long. 

"Fading!"  she  said:  "fading!  Rouge,  French  coiff"ures, 
enamel,  belladonna,  and  the  rest  of  it  are  very  well;  but  they 
can't  make  over  a  woman  of  thirty-seven  into  a  girl  of  twenty. 
Still,  considering  the  life  I  ve  led" — she  set  her  teeth  like  a  lit- 
tle lion-dog.  "  Ah,  what  a  bitter  fight  the  battle  of  life  has 
been  for  me  !  If  I  were  wise  I  would  pocket  my  wrongs,  forego 
my  vengeance,  keep  my  secret,  and  live  happy  in  Scarswood 
Hall  forever  after.  I  wonder  if  Sir  John  would  marry  me  if  I 
asked  him  ?  " 

The  door  opened  and  Sir  John  came  in.  Little  Mrs.  Vava- 
sor turned  round  from  the  glass,  folded  her  small  hands,  and 
stood  and  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  on  her  face. 

He  was  very  i)ale,  and  grim  as  the  grave.  So  for  a  moment 
they  stood,  like  two  duelists  waiting  for  the  word,  in  dead  si- 
lence.    Then  the  lady  spoke  : 

"  How  do  you  do.  Sir  John  ?  When  we  parted  I  remember 
you  found  me  admiring  myself  in  the  glass  ;  when  we  meet 
again,  after  fifteen  years — Dieu  /  how  old  it  makes  one  feel — 


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you  frntl  me  before  the  glass  again.  Not  admiring  mysdf  this 
liiiL',  yi)ii  iiiulcrstaiul.  1  sadly  fear  I  have  grown  old  ami  ugly 
i:i  all  thoso  haul  (bnght  ycA\'<,.  lUit  you — you're  not  a  tX.iy 
older,  and  just  the  same  handsome,  stalwrrt  soldier  I  remember 
yt)ii.  \V'(jn't  you  shako  hands  lor  the  sake  of  old  times,  Sir 
John,  nnd  say  'you  aie  \\\'lc;()nie'  to  a  poor  liitie  woman  who 
has  iravcll'jd  all  the  way  from  I'aris  to  see  you?" 

She  held  out  her  little  gloved  hand,  lie  drew  aWviy  with  a 
gesture  of  re|)ulsion,  and  crossing  to  the  chimney-piece  leaned 
upon  it,  his  face  hard  and  set,  in  the  light  of  the  lamps. 

"  Why  have  you  come  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Ah,  Cii'i  /  hear  him! — such  a  cruel  question.  And  after 
fifteen  years  I  stand  all  alone  in  this  big,  pitiless  world,  a  poor 
little  friendU.'Ss  woman,  and  I  come  to  the  gallant  gentleman 
who  lifiecn  years  ago  stood  my  friend — such  a  friend — and  he 
asks  me  in  that  cruel  voice  why  1  have  come  !  " 

"That  will  do,  Mrs.  Vavasor — this  is  not  a  theatre,  nor  am  I 
an  a'i)preciative  audience.  Tell  me  the  truth,  if  you  can — let 
us  have  plain  speaking.  Why  have  you  come  here  i*  What 
do  you  want  ?" 

"That  is  plain  language  certainly.  I  have  come  here  be- 
cause you  are  in  my  power — absolutely  and  wholly  in  my 
l)ower.  And  1  want  to  stay  here  ah'  an  honored  gnest  just  as 
long  as  1  please.  Is  that  plain  enough  to  satisfy  you,  or  would 
you  like  me  to  put  it  still  plainer  ?" 

Her  deriding  black  eyes  mocked  him,  her  incessant  smile  set 
his  teeth  on  edge.  Hatred — abhorrence — were  in  his  eyes  as 
he  looked  at  her. 

"You  want  money,  I  suppose?  Well,  )'0U  shall  have  it, 
though  I  paid  you  your  price  long  ago,  and  you  promised  to 
trouble  me  no  more.  J>ut  you  can't  stay  here;  it  is  sim[)ly 
impossible." 

"It  is  simply  nothing  of  the  kind.'  I  have  come  to  stay— 
my  liig,;,^age  is  down  yonder  in  the  hall,  and  you  will  tell  them 
presently  to  fetch  it  up  and  show  me  to  my  room.  I  do  want 
money  -yes,  it  is  tlie  universal  want,  and  I  mean  to  have  it. 
Eight_  thousand  a  year  and  Scarswood  Park,  one  of  the  fmest 
seats  in  Sussex.  And  such  an  old  fixmily  ! — baronets  created 
bv  Jimcs  the  First,  and  kniglUs  cenf-uriesand  centuries  before  I 
How  proud  your  daughter  must  feel  of  her  ancient  name  and 
lineage  1 "  And  Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  aloud,  her  tinkling  iaugli 
that  struck  shrilly  on  hypersensitive  ears. 

"  You  will  leave  my  daughter's  name  out  of  the  question,  if 


2(5 


AIRS.    FAVASOR. 


you  please,"  the  baronet  retorted  haughtily ;  "  such  lips  as  yours 
sully  her  name.  If  }'ou  had  one  s[jark  of  womanly  feeling, 
one  grain  of  self-respect  left  from  the  life  you  have  led,  a 
woman's  heart  in  your  breast,  you  Avould  never  come  near  /ic>: 
In  Heaven's  name  go — I  will  give  you  anything,  anytliiiig,  only 
don't  insist  upon  staying  here." 

For  answer  she  walked  back  to  the  mirror,  and  deliberately 
began  removing  her  bonnet,  gloves,  and  mantle. 

"  As  I  intend  going  down  and  joining  your  party  presently, 
and  being  introduced  to  the  county  fauiilies,  I  tliink  I  will  go 
uj)  to  my  room  at  once,  if  you  please,  Sir  John.  By  the  way,  is 
Mr,  Peter  Dangerfield  one  of  your  guests  on  this  iiappy  occa- 
sion ?  It  strikes  me  now  I  should  like  to  know  him.  He  is 
your  only  brother's  only  son  and  heir-in-law — after  yout 
daughter,  of  course.  Mow  awkward  for  that  young  gcntlemar. 
you  should  have  a  daughter  at  all.  And  the  estate  is  strictly 
entailed  to  the  nearest  of  kiiir  There  was  a  gleam  of  almost 
dangerous  malice  in  her  eyes  as  she  turned  from  the  mirror. 
"  Yes,  I  am  really  anxious  to  make  the  accpiaintance  of  Mr. 
Peter  Dangerfield." 

He  turned  almost  livid — he  made  a  step  towards  her. 

"  You  would  not  dare,"  he  said  huskily;  "you  wretch!  You 
would  not  dare — " 

"  I  would  dare  anything  except  being  late  for  AEiss  Danger- 
field's  birth-night  party.  Just  seventeen  !  a  charming  age,  and 
an  heiress,  and  a  beauty,  no  doubt  ?  Ah  !  what  a  contrast  to 
my  waning  youth.  I  grow  melancholy  Avhen  1  think  of  it.  1 
was  seventeen  once',  too,  Sir  John,  though  to  look^at  me  now 
you  iiiightn't  believe  it.  Ring  tlie  bell,  please,  and  let  that  nice 
old  creature,  your  housekeeper,  show  me  to  my  room.  And 
when  I'm  ready — say — at  ten  o'clock — you  will  come  for  me 
here,  and  present  me  to  your  guests.  No,  really,  baronet — not 
another  word  to-night  on  that  subject.  These  serious  matters 
are  so  exhausting;  and  remember  I've  been  travelling  all  day. 
Ring  the  bell." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  tlien  obey^ed.  The  look  of  a  hunt- 
ed animal  was  in  his  eyes,  and  she  stood  there  mocking  him 
to  his  face.  It  seemed  about  as  unequal  a  contest  as  a  battle 
between  a  huge  Newfoundland  and  a  little  King  Charles,  and 
the  King  Charles  had  the  victory  this  time. 

Mrs.  Harrison  answered  the  bell ;  in  the  brief  interval  no 
word  had  been  spoken. 


t|- 


MRS.    VAVASOR. 


27 


ips  as  yours 


k  of  a  hunt- 


interval  no 


"  You  will  show  Mrs.  Vavasor  to  her  room,"  Sir  John  said 
shortly  and  sternly,  turning  to  go. 

"And  I  will  be  dressed  by  ten,  and  you  will  call  for  me 
here,"  responded  Mrs.  Vavasor  ga}ly,  over  her  shoulder. 
"  IIuw  fortunate  I  have  been  in  not  missing  the  opportunity  of 
offering  my  congratulations  to  Miss  Dangertield." 

And  then,  humming  a  gay  French  air,  Mrs.  Vavasor  followed 
the  housekeejier  up  another  broad  oaken  stairway,  along  a 
carpeted  corridor  and  into  a  velvet-hung  chamber,  bright  widi 
firelight  and  waxlight,  luxurious  with  cushions,  chairs,  and 
lounges,  fragrant  with  hot-house  flowers,  and  rich  with  pictures. 

"Your  trunks  are  in  the  wardrobe  adjoining,  ma'am,"  Mrs. 
Harrison  said:  "and  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  or  if  Miss 
Katherine's  maid — " 

"You  good  creature!"  Mrs.  Vavasor  answered.  "No,  I 
am  my  own  maid — I  haven't  eight  thousand  a  year,  you  know, 
like  your  darling  Afiss  Katherine,  and  can't  afford  luxuiies. 
Thanks,  very  much,  and — good-night  ;"  and  then  -the  door 
closed  gently  in  the  housekeeper's  face,  the  key  was  turned, 
and  Sir  John's  guest  was  alone. 

She  stood  and  looked  round  the  room  with  a  smile,  that 
incessant  smile  that  grew  just  a  triile  wearisome  after  the  first 
half  hour  or  so. 

In  the  golden  gleam  of  the  light  the  tall  mirrors  flashed,  the 
cari)et  looked  like  a  green  bunk  of  June  roses,  the  silken 
draperies  shimmered,  and  the  exotics  in  their  tall  glasses  per- 
fumed the  warm  air.  Outside  the  rain  beat,  and  the  wind 
blew,  and  th'^  "  blackness  of  darkness  "  reigned.  She  listened 
to  the  wild  boating  of  the  storm  in  the  park  with  a  little  deli- 
cious shiver. 

"  Is  it  like  my  life  ?  "  she  said  softly.  "  Have  I  come  out 
of  the  rain,  and  the  wind,  and  the  night,  to  the  roses,  and  wax- 
lights,  and  music  of  existence  ?  Or  is  the  gypsy,  vagabond 
inslinct  .too  strong  in  me,  and  will  the  roses  fade,  and  their 
perfume  sicken,  and  the  lights  grow  dim,  and  I  throw  it  all 
I'l^  some  day,  and  go  back  to  the  old  freedom  and  outlawry 
once  more?  The  cedar  palace  and  purple  robes  of  the  king 
look  very  inviting,  but  I  think  1  would  rather  have  the  tent's 
of  Hohemia,  with  their  freedom,  and  the  stars  shining  througli 
the  canvas  roof." 

An  hour  later  there  descended  to  the  long  drawing-room, 
a  hdy— a  stranger  to  all  there.  She  appeared  in  their  midst 
as  suddenly  as  though  she  had  dropped  from  the  rainy  skies, 


fe 


I 


28 


MRS.    VAVASOR. 


a  charming  little  vision,  in  amber  silk  and  Chantilly  flounces, 
and  diamonds,  and  creamy  roses  in  her  lloating  feathery  black 
hair.  A  little  hub'  whose  cheeks  outshone  all  roses,  and  whose 
eyes  outllashec^.  her  diamonds,  and  whom  Sir  John  Dangerlield 
introduced  to  his  guests  as  Mrs.  Vavasor. 

Who  was  Mrs.  Vavasor? 

Women  looked  at  her  askance^thc  stamp  of  adventuress 
>vas  on  her  face  and  raiment. 

The  rouge  was  artistic,  but  it  was  rouge  ;  the  amber  silk 
\.-as  shabby,  the  Chantilly,  a  very  clever  imitation,  the  dia- 
monds l^alais  Royal  beyond  doubt.  And  then  Sir  John  was 
so  pale,  so  gloomy — the  old  soldier,  not  used  to  society  masks, 
showed  hit.  trouble  all  too  plainly  in  his  perturbed  face. 

A  woman  not  of  dieir  order — and  the  ladies'  bows  were 
frigid  and  chilling  as  the  baronet  presented  her. 

But  the  men — what  did  they  know  of  shabby  silks  and 
brownish  laces.  They  saw  a  brilliant  little  fairy  of — well,  live- 
and-twenty  summers,  perhaps — by  lamplight — with  the  eyes  and 
teeth  of  a  goddess. 

"But,  Aliss  Dangcrheld,  Sir  John — Miss  Dangerfield  !  Miss 
Dangerlield!"  Mrs.  Vavasor  cried,  tapping  him  i)layfully 
with  her  fan  ;  "  those  people  are  not  the  rose,  though  they 
have  come  to-night  to  do  honor  to  that  gorgeous  flower.  ]  am 
dying  to  behold  Miss  Dangerfield." 

The  stormy  blue  eyes  of  the  Indian  officer  flashed ;  he 
gnawed  his  mustache,  with  an  oath  only  heard  by  the  lady  on 
his  arm;     Her  shrill  lauL;h  answered  it. 

"  For  shame.  Sir  John  !  So  ill-bred,  too  !  And  that  foce  ! 
You  look  like  the  Death's-h.ead  the  Egyptians  used  to  have 
z  t  their  banc^uets.  What  7vill  people  say  ?  There,  I  see  her 
— 1  see  her  !  that  ^"s  Katherine." 

She  stopped  short,  still  holding  Sir  John's  arm,  and  a  vivid 
li.'ht  came  into  her  black  eyes.  The  baronet's  dauc;hter  WaS 
ciJvancing  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Gaston  Dantice. 

"  Katherine,"  her  father  said,  bringing  out  every  word  with 
a  husky eifort,  "this  is  Mrs.  Vavasor,  a  very  old  fri — acquaint- 
ance." If  his  lif,'  had  been  at  stake,  he  could  not  have  said 
"  friend."  "  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  her ;  she  is  our  guest 
for  the  present." 

He  lurned  abruptly,  and  walked  away. 

Katherine  Dangerfield  held  out  her  hand — for  the  flrst,  the 
last  time — to  her  father's  ac(]uaintance.  Their  eyes  met,  and 
on  the  only  occasion,  perhaps,  in  all  her  seven-and-thirty  years 


3IRS.   VAVASOR. 


29 


lly  flounces, 
Llheiy  black 
;,  and  whose 
Dangfifield 


adventuress 

amber  silk 
m,  the  dia- 
ir  John  was 
cicty  masks, 
lice. 

bows  were 

y  silks  and 
f — well,  five- 
ihe  eyes  and 

rfield  !  Miss 
m    -'■ 


DlavTullv 


though  they 
)wer.     ]  am 

Hashed ;   he 
the  lady  on 

1  that  face  ! 
scd  to  have 
•e,  I  see  her 

and  a  vivid 
laughter  waS 

•y  word  \\illi 
i — acquaint- 
ot  have  said 
:  is  our  guest 


the  first,  the 
OS  met,  and 
l-thirty  years 


of  life,  those  of  the  elder  woman  fell.  The  bright  griy  eyes 
1^  of  the  girl  looked  straight  Ihrough  her,  and  distrusted  and  dis- 

liked her  with  that  first  glance. 

"My  father's  friends  are  always  welcome  to  Scarswood." 
She  said  it  very  briefly  and  coldly.  "  May  J  beg  of  you  to 
excuse  me  now,  1  am  engaged  for  this  waltz  to  Mr.  Danlree." 

She  was  looking  her  best  to-night  and  almost  pretty ;  but 
then  *'  almost "  is  a  very  wide  word. 

She  wore  ])ink  tissue,  that  floated  about  her  like  a  rosy  nn"st, 
with  here  and  there  a  touch  of  priceless  old  point,  and  a  tiny 
cluster  of  fairy  roses.  She  had  ])earls  on  her  neck,  and  gleam- 
ing through  her  lovely  auburn  hair,  a  rich  tea-rose  nestling  in 
its  silken  brown. 

She  looked  gra,ceful ;  she  looked  nnspcakably  patrician  ; 
she  carried  herself  like  a  young  princess.  And  the  vivid  light 
in  Mrs.  Vavasor's  black  eyes  grew  brighter  as  she  watched  her 
float  away. 

"She  has  her  mother's  flice,"  she  v.hispered  to  herself; 
"she  has  her  mother's  voice — and  1  hate  her  for  her  moth  r's 
sake  I  A  home  in  Scarsv/ood  forever,  the  fleshpots  of  Eg)  pt, 
the  purple  and  fine  linen  of  high  life,  would  be  very  pleasant 
things,  but  revenge  is  i>leasanter  still." 

One  of  the  gentlemen  to  whom  she  had,  at  her  own  special 
request,  been  introduced,  came  u}),  as  she  stood,  and  solicited 
the  pleasure  of  a  waltz. 

"I  am  sure  you  caji  waltz,"  he  said  :  "  I  can  always  tell,  by 
some  sort  of  Terpsichorean  instinct,  I  suppose,  when  a  lady  is, 
or  is  not,  a  waltzer." 

Mr.  Peter  Dangerficld  was  right  at  least  in  this  particular 
instance ;  Mrs.  Vavasor  waltzed  like  a  fairj'- — like  a  French 
fairy,  at  that. 

She  and  the  baronet's  daughter  whirled  past  each  other  more 
than  once — Katherine  with  her  brown  hair  floating  in  a  per- 
fumed cloud,  her  lips  breathless  and  apart,  and  her  bright  eyes 
laughing  in  her  partner's  face. 

"  Is  she  in  love  with  that  very  handsome  young  man,  I  won- 
der?" Mrs.  Vavasor  thought;  "and  is  he  rich,  and  in  love 
wiih  her?  If  so,  then  my  plan  of  vengeanv.^  may  be  frustrated 
yet." 

"Mr.  Dangerfield,"  to  lier  partner,  "please  tell  me  the 
name  of  that  gentleman  with  Avhom  Miss  Dangerfield  is  danc- 
ing?   It  strikes  me  I  have  somewhere  seen  bis  face  before." 

"Not  unlikely,  lie's  been  everywhere.     His  name  is  Gaston 


fH  i 


ii:, 


30 


MRS.   VAVASOR. 


!t    ii 


ii 


Dantree,  and  lie  is,  I  believe,  a  native  of  the  State  of  Louis-- 
iana." 

"An  American  I  lie  is  very  rich,  then — all  those  Anier- 
^'cans  are  rich." 

"Dantree  is  not.  By  his  own  showing,  he  is  j^qor  as  a 
church-mouse  ;  his  only  wealth  is  his  Grecian  profile  and  his 
tenor  voice."  There  was  just  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  his  tone 
as  he  looked  after  the  handsome  Southerner  and  his  partner. 

"  ' RIy  fjce  is  my  fortune,  sir,  she  said,'" 

hummed  gayly  Mrs.  Vavasor.  "  How,  then,  comes  monsieur 
to  be  here,  and  evidently  first  favorite  in  the  regards  of  Sir 
John's  he'ress  ?" 

"  His  handsome  face  and  musical  tenor  again.  Miss  Dan- 
gerfield  met  him  at  a  concert,  not  three  weeks  ago,  and  behold 
the  result !  \Ve,  poor  devils,  minus  classic  noses,  arched  eye- 
brows, and  the  \'oi(X's  of  archangels,  stand  out  at  the  cold  and 
gaze  afar  off  at  him  in  Paradise." 

"  Does  Sir  John  like  it  ?  " 

"  Sir  John  will  like  whatever  his  daughter  likes.  Any  human 
creature  i)ersistent  enough  can  do  what  they  please  with  Sir 
John.     For  his  daughter  he  is  her  abject  slave." 

I'he  bitterness  was  bitterer  than  ever  in  Mr.  Peter  Dan^-er- 
field's  voice  ;  evidently  the  heiress  of  Scarswood  and  her  nand- 
some  Southerner  were  sore  subjects. 

He  was  a  i)ale-ficed,  under-sized  }'Oung  man,  with  very  light 
hair  and  eyes — so  light  that  he  was  hopelessly  near-sighted — 
and  a  weak,  cjueruloua  voice.  It  ions  just  a  little  hard  to  see 
Scarswood  slipping  out  of  the  family  before  his  very  eyes 
through  the  headstrong  whims  of  a  novel-reading,  beauty-loving, 
chit  of  a  girl. 

He,  too,  vv'as  poor — poor  as  Gaston  Dantree  himself — and 
at  thirty,  manmion  was  the  god  of  his  idolatry,  and  to  reign 
one  day  at  Scarswood,  the  perpetual  longing  of  his  life. 

"And  Miss  Dangerfield  is  a  young  lady  whose  slaves  must 
obey,  I  diink  ;  and  Scarswood  will  go  out  of  the  family.  Such 
a  pity,  Mr.  Dangerfield !  Yow,  I  should  think  yon  might  pre- 
vent that." 

She  made  this  audacious  home-thrust  looking  full  in  his  pale, 
thin  face,  with  her  black,  resolnte  eyes. 

The  blood  Hushed  redly  to  tiie  roots  of  his  dull  yellow  hair. 

"1  1  My  dear  madame," — with  a  hard  laugh — "/stand  no 
chance.     I'm  not  a  handsome  man." 


MRS.    VAVASOR. 


31 


J  of  Louis- 

ose  Anier- 

l">Qor  as  a 
ilc   and  liid 
in  his  tone 
partner. 


s  monsieur 
irds  of  Sir 

]\Tiss  Dan- 
and  behold 
rched  eye- 
e  cold  and 


\ny  human 
se  wiUi   Sir 

2v  Danryer- 
1  her  nand- 

1  very  h"2;ht 
r-siglited — 
lard  to  see 
very  eyes 
uty-Ioving, 

n  self— and 
1  to  reiq;a 
ife.  " 

aves  must 
ily.  Such 
night  pre- 

n  his  pale, 

How  liair. 
r  stand  no 


"  Miss  Dangerfield — I  am  a  woman,  and  may  say  so — is  not 
aliandsome  giil." 

"All  the  greater  reason  why  she  should  worship  beauty  in 
otliers.  Gaston  Dantree,  without  a  sou  in  his  pocket,  a  for- 
eigner, an  adventurer,  for  all  we  know  to  the  contrary,  will  one 
day  reign  lord  of  Scarswood.  See  them  now !  Could  any- 
thing be  more  lover-like  than  they  are,  Mrs.  Vavasor  ?  " 

He  sjwke  to  her  as  though  he  had  known  her  for  years. 
Some  rapport  made  those  two  friends  at  once. 

She  looked  where  he  pointed,  her  smile  and  glance  at  their 
brightest. 

The  waltz  had  ended ;  leaning  on  her  ha'dsome  partner's 
arm,  the  last  llutter  of  Miss  Dangerfield's  pink  dress  vanished 
in  the  green  distance  of  the  conservatory. 

*'  I  see  ;  and  in  s]Mte  of  appearances,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  I 
wouldn't  mind  betting — my  diamonds,  say,  against  that  botan- 
ical specimen  in  your  buttonhole — that  IVIr.  Gaston  Dantree, 
Grecian  jirofile,  tenor  voice,  and  all,  will  never  reign  lord  of 
Scarswood  ;  and  for  you — why  you  know  the  old  rhyme  ; 

,  ^  "  '  He  either  dreads  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  liis  deserts  are  sm;ill, 
Who  foars  to  put  it  to  the  touch,  '     '       " 

To  vin  or  lose  it  all.'  " 


She  walked  away,  with  her  last  words,  her  ever-mocking 
laugh  coming  back  to  him  where  he  stood.  What  did  the 
woman  mean?  How  odcily  she  looked  and  spoke.  How 
could  j//^  prevent  Gaston  Lantree  marrying  Katherine?  But 
the  last  advice  was  good — why  despair  before  speaking  ? 

"  To  win  or  lose  it  all !  "  repeated  Peter  Dangerfield,  strok- 
ing his  feeble,  colorless  mustache.  *'  By  George  I  I  will  try. 
She  can  but  say  no." 

There  was  a  call  for  Mr.  Dar;tree  on  the  instant — Mr.  Dan- 
tree was  wanted  to  sinsj. 

]\[r.  Dangerfield  stood  where  he  was,  and  saw  the  dark-eyed 
tenor  emerge  leisurely  from  the  conservatory,  and — alone. 
He  sat  down  at  the  ]Mano ;  his  slender,  shapely  hands  flew 
over  the  keys  in  a  brilliant  prelude.  Everybody  was  listening 
— now  was  his  time.  Katherine  was  in  the  conservatory  yet. 
He  made  his  way  slowly  down  the  long  vista  of  rooms  to 
where,  at  the  extreme  end,  the  green  brightness  of  tropic  plants 
gleamed  in  the  lamplight. 

She  still  stood  wher-  her  late  companion  had  left  her,  in  the 
recess  of  a  window,  her  robe  of  pink  tissue  shining  rosily,  her 


MRS.   VAVASOR. 


u 


jewels  glancing  softly.  Tnll  tropic  jilants  spread  their  fcin-like 
leaves  about  her;  the  air  was  ri<h  and  faint  with  exotic  odors j 
and  over  all  the  soft,  abundant  light  ])oured  down. 

Gaston  Dantree's  song  lloated  in — an  Irish  song,  half  gay, 
half  sad,  wholly  sweet — and  a  brooding  tenderness  lay  on  the 
girl's  face — a  great  happiness,  new  and  sweet — and  made 
It  almost  beautifid.  The  rain  lashed  the  windows,  the  wind 
of  the  October  night  blew  in  long,  lamentable  blasts  through 
the  rocking  trees  :  but  the  storm  and  darkness  without  only 
•  made  the  contrast  wiUiin  the  more  brilliant. 

"Katherine!" 

She  neither  saw  nor  heard  him  until  he  Avas  close  at  her 
side.     She  lifted  up  her  dreamy  eyes,  her  trance  of  bliss  over. 

"  Oh,  yon,  Peter  !  What  an  odious  habit  you  have  of  steal- 
ing in  ui)on  one  like  a  cat.     1  never  heard  you." 

"  You  never  heard  me,  Miss  Dangerfield  ?  You  need  hardly 
tell  me  that.  You  were  listening  far  too  intently  to  Mr.  Gas- 
ton l^antree  to  hear  anything  else." 

"  Was.  I  ?"  retorted  Katherine.  They  rarely  met,  those  two, 
except  to  quarrel.  "Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  Mr.  Gaston 
Dantrce  is  very  v.'cU  worth  listening  to,  which  is  more  than  I 
can  say  for  you,  cousin  Peter." 

"You  mean  I'm  not  a  singing  man,  I  suppose,  Kathie? 
Well,  I  admit  my  brains  do  not  lie  in  my  throat  and  lungs." 

"  Nor  anywhere  else,  Mr.  Dangerfield." 

"  And  when  is  it  to  be,  Katie  ?"  Mr.  Dangei  field  demanded, 
folding  his  arms ;  "  when  are  we  all  to  ot^fer  our  congratulations  ? 
Such  a  llirlation  as  yours,  my  dear  cousin,  witn  this  Apollo 
Pelvidere  from  the  Southern  States,  can  have  but  one  end- 

"  And  such  a  flirtation  as  yoin'S  with  this  pretty  Mrs.  Vavasor, 
from  nobody  knows  where,  can  have  but  one  ending,  too,  I 
sui'jpose,"  responded  Katherine,  coming  up  to  time  bravely. 
"  She  is  some  five  or  six  years  your  senior,  I  should  think  ;  but, 
where  true  love  exists,  what  does  a  little  disparity  of  years  sig- 
nify ?     A  case  of  love  at  sight ;  was  it  not,  cousin  ?  " 

"  You  might  have  spared  me  that  taunt,  Katherine ;  you 
know  \ery  well  who  it  is  /am  so  unfortunate  as  to  love." 

"Upon  my  word,  I  don't.  My  little  cousin  Peter,  his  loves 
and  hates,  are  subjects  that  trouble  me  very  slightly.  There  ! 
Mr.  Dantree's  song  is  done,  and  they  are  playing  the  Lancers. 
Sui)i:)Ose  we  leave  off  quarreling  and  go  and  have  a  cousinly 
quadiille  ?  " 


MRS.    VAVASOR. 


33 


ir  fan-like 
ic  odots  J 

half  gay, 
ly  on  the 
nd   made 

the  wind 
5  through 
loiit  only 


ie  at  her 
iss  over, 
of  stcal- 

:d  hardly 
Mr.  Gas- 

10 se  two, 
".  Ciaston 
re  than  I 

Kalhie  ? 
.mgs." 

Mnanded, 
ulations  ? 
,s  Apollo 
one  end- 
Vavasor, 
g,  too,  I 
bravely, 
nk ;  but, 
."■ears  sig- 

ne ;  you 
re." 

his  loves 

^'liere ! 

J>ancers. 

cousinly 


"  Not  vet,  Kathle.  I  can  endure  this  suspense  no  longer. 
No,  you  shall  not  go  ;  I  will  be  heard  !  To  watch  you  as  i 
have  watched  }'ou  to-night  with  that  man  would  simply  drive 
me  mad  !  " 

"Would  it?  Then  why  on  earth  do  you  do  it?  I  don't 
want  to  be  watched,  and  I  don't  suppose  AFr.  Dantrce  does, 
either.  You  mean  Mr.  Dantree,  don't  you?  And,  Peter, 
don't  put  on  that  tragic  face;  it  isn't  your  style,  dear.  You're 
too  fair  coini)lexioned.  And  what  business  is  it  of  yours,  and 
why  should  it  drive  you  mad  ?  " 

"Little  need  to  ask,  Katiierine.  You  know  only  too  well — 
because  I  love  you.  Kathie,  don't  look  like  that  !  I  love 
you,  and  you  know  it  well,  I  haven't  had  thoughts  or  eyes  for 
any  living  creature  but  you  since  you  "■'•st  came  here.  Ah, 
Kathie  !  Listen  to  me.  Don't  laugh,  ?=.  I  see  you  are  going 
to  do.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart — better  than  ever  that  fel- 
low can  do— and  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  Katherine,  don't 
laugh  at  me,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  " 

Ijut  the  warning  came  too  late. 

Katherine  broke  out  into  a  ringing  peal  of  laughter,  that  the 
music  hai^pily  drowned. 

Peter  Dangerlield,  looking  desperately  in  earnest,  very,  very, 
yellow,  and,  with  folded  arms,  stood  glaring  at  her  in  an  un- 
connnonly  savage  way  for  so  tender  a  declaration. 

"I  hcg  your  pardon,  Peter,  but  I  can't  help  it.  The  idea  of 
marrying  you — only  five  feet  five  inches,  and  an  attorney,  and 
my  fust  cousin  !  First  cousins  should  never  marry,  you  know. 
What  would  papa  say,  you  silly  little  boy,  if  he  could  hear 
this?" 

"  My  uncle  knows,"  the  young  man  answered,  with  sullen 
anger  ;   "  1  spoke  to  him  a  month  ago." 

Miss  Dangerheld  0])ei"ied  her  big,  gray  eyes. 

"Oh,  you  did?  That's  what  he  meant,  then,  that  morning 
after  the  concert.  I  remember ;  he  tried  to  plead  your  cause. 
And  you  spoke  to  him  first ;  and  you're  a  lawyer,  and  knew  no 
better  than  that/  No,  Peter;  it  is  not  possible.  You're  a 
nice  little  fellow,  and  I  think  a  great  deal  of  you  ;  and  I'd  do 
almost  anything  you  wanted  me,  except — marry  you.  That's 
a  little  too  much,  even  for  such  good  nature  as  mine." 

"Then  Pm  to  consider  myself  rejected  ?" 

"Now,  Peter,  don't  put  on  that  ill-tempered  face  ;  it  quite 
spoils  your  good  looks,  and  you  know  you  have  none  to  spoil 
— spare,  I  mean.     Well,  yes,  then ;  I  am  afraid  you  must  con- 


34 


MRS.    VAVASOR. 


I'j  '!! 


sider  yourself  rejected.  I  really  should  like  to  oblige  you  in 
this  matter,  but  you  i)crceive  1  can't.  Come,  let  us  make  it 
up — I'm  not  angry — and  lake  me  back  to  the  drawing-room  for 
my  dance.     It  is  a  sin  to  lose  such  luusic  as  that." 

•'In  one  moment,  Katherine.  Will  you  answer  me  this, 
please  ?     Is  it  for  Gaston  Dantrec  1  am  refused  ?  " 

"Cousin  Peter,  I  shall  lose  my  temper  if  you  keep  on.  If 
there  were  no  Mr.  Dantree  in  the  case  1  should  reject  you  all 
the  same.  You're  very  well  as  a  first  coiisin;  as  a  husband — 
excuse  me !  I  wouldn't  marry  you  if  y(5u  were  the  only  man 
left  in  the  world,  and  the  penalty  of  refusing  you  be  to  go  to 
my  grave  an  old  maid.     Is  that  answer  decisive  enough  ?  " 

"  Very  nearly  !  Thank  you  for  your  plain  speaking,  Kathie." 
He  was  white  with  suppressed  anger.  "But  lest  we  should 
misunderstand  each  other  in  the  least,  won't  you  tell  me  whether 
or  no  l\Tr.  Dantree  is  to  be  the  future  lord  of  Scarswood  Park? 
Because  in  that  case,  for  the  honor  of  the  family  I  should  en- 
deavor to-  discover  the  gentleman's  antecedents.  A  classic 
profile  and  a  fme  voice  for  singing  may  be  sufficient  virtues  in 
the  eyes  of  a  young  lady  of  seventeen,  but  I'm  afraid  they  will 
hardly  satisfy  the  world  or  Sir  John." 

"For  the  world  I  don't  care  t/iat /  For  Sir  John,  whatever 
makes  me  ha[)i)y  will  satisfy  him.  I  am  trying  to  keep  my 
tem[)er,  Peter,  but  don't  provoke  me  too  far — it  isn't  sa*"^. 
Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  take  me  out  for  the  dance  ?  1  am 
not  accustomed  to  ask  favors  twice." 

"  How  queenly  she  says  it — the  heiress  of  Scarswood  !  " 
His  passion  was  not  to  be  restrained  now.     "  And  it  is  for  this 
Yankee  singing  man — this  needy  adventurer — this  negro  min- 
strel in  his  own  land,  that  I  am  cast  off?  " 

She  wh.irled  round  upon  him  in  a  storm  of  sudden  fury,  and 
made  a  step  toward  him.  But  rage  lent  him  courage;  he  stood 
his  ground. 

"You  little  wretch !"  cried  Miss  Dangerfield,  "  how  dare 
you  stand  there  and  say  such'  things  to  me  ?  How  dare  you 
call  Gaston  Dantree  an  adventurer?  You,  who  would  not  pre- 
sume to  call  your  soul  your  own  in  his  presence  !  Negro  min- 
strel, indeed  !  You  wretched  little  attorney  !  One  should  be 
a  gentleman  to  judge  gentlemen.  That's  why  Mr.  Dantrce's 
be\'ond  your  judgment  !  Don't  ever  speak  to  me  a^;ain. 
You're  very  offer  is  an  insult.  To  think  that  I — /  would  ever 
marry  you,  a  little  rickety  dwarf!" 

And  then  dead  silence  fell. 


MI^'S.   V^AVASOR. 


35 


ige  you  m 

us  make  it 
ig-room  for 

r  me  this, 

cp  on.  If 
ect  you  all 

husband — • 

only  man 

)e  to  go  to 

igh  ?  " 

j;,  Kathic." 

we  siiould 

nc  whether 

ood  Park? 

should  en- 

A  classic 

:  virtues  in 

d  they  will 

,  whatever 
i  keep  my 
isn't  sa!"„\ 
:e  ?     1  am 

3od ! " 

t  is  for  this 

negro  min- 

1  fur}',  and 
;  he  stood 

how  dare 
r  dare  you 
Id  not  i)re- 
icgio  min. 
should  be 

Dan  tree's 
me  a 'rain. 
vould  ever 


I  don't  ui")hold  this  heroine  of  mine — her  temper  is  abomina- 
ble, I  allow ;  but  the  moment  the  last  words  passed  her  lips 
her  heart  smote  her.  Peter  Dangerfield  stood  before  her  white 
as  death,  and  trembling  so  that  he  was  forced  to  grasp  a  gilded 
llower  stand  for  support. 

"Oh,  Peter  !  I  am  sorry!  "  she  cried  out,  "I  didn't  mean 
that ! — I  didn't  I  I  didn't ! — forgive  it — forget  it — my  temper 
is  horrible — I'm  a  wretch,  but  you  know,"  suffering  a  slight 
relapse,  *'  it  was  all  your  own  fault.  Shake  hands,  cousin ;  and 
oh,  do — do — do  forget  my  wicked  words  !  " 

But  he  drew  back  from  the  outstretched  hands,  smiling  a 
ghastly  smile  enough. 

"  Forget  them  ?  Certainly,  Cousin  Katherine  !  Pm  not  the 
sort  of  fellow  to  bear  spite.  You're  very  good  and  all  that,  but 
if  it's  the  same  to  you,  I'll  not  shake  hands.  And  I  won't  keep 
you  from  dancing  that  quadrille  any  longer.  I'll  not  be  your 
partner — I  don't  dance  as  well  as  Mr.  Dan  tree,  and  I  see  him 
coming  this  way  now.  Excuse  me  for  having  troubled  you 
about  this  i)resuniptuous  love  of  mine  ;  I  won't  do  it  again." 

Then  he  turned  away,  and  Gaston  Dantree,  looking  like  a 
picture  in  a  Aame,  stood  in  the  rose-wreathed  entrance  arch. 

"  1  am  sorry,  and  I  have  apologized,"  Katherine  said  coldly. 
"  i  can  do  no  more." 

"No  more  is  needed.  Pray  don't  keep  Mr.  Dantree  wait- 
ing.    And  I  would  rather  he  did  not  come  in  here  just  now." 

"  Come,  Kathie,"  Mr.  Dantree  called  softly. 

It  had  come  to  that  then  ;  it  was  "Kathie"  and  "Gaston." 
He  saw  him  draw  her  hand  under  his  arm  as  one  having  the 
right,  whisper  soniething  in  her  ear  that  lit  her  face  with  sun- 
shine, and  lead  her  away. 

Peter  Dangerfield  stood  alone.  He  watched  them  quite  out 
of  sight — his  teeth  set,  his  face  perfectly  colorless,  and  a  look 
in  his  small  eyes  bad  to  see. 

"  I  have  read  of  men  who  sold  their  souls  to  the  devil  for  a 
price,"  he  said,  between  his  set  teeth.  "  I  suppose  the  days 
for  such  bargains  are  over,  and  souls  are  plentiful  enough  in 
the  kingdom  of  his  dark  majesty,  without  paying  a  farthing. 
Put  if  those  days  could  come  again,  and  Satan  stood  beside  me, 
I  would  sell  my  s  Jul  now  for  revenge  on  you  !  " 

"  Are  you  sure  you  have  one  to  sell  ?  "  a  clear,  sharp  voice 
close  behind  him  said.  "I  never  thought  lawyers  weie 
troubled  with  those  inconvenient  appendages — hearts  and  souls. 
Well,  if  you  have,  keep  it ;  it's  of  no  use  to  me.     And  I'm  not 


36 


AMONG    THE  ROSES. 


Satan,  cither,  but  yet  I  think  for  a  fair  price  /  can  give  yon 


^ " 


your  revenue 

He  whirled  round  with  a  stifled  exclamation,  and  ?"  .v  at  his 
elbow — Mrs.  Vavasor.  . 


CHAPTER   III. 


AMONG    THE    ROSES. 


I  HE  stood  beside  him,  her  ceaseless  smile  at  its  bright- 
est on  her  small  face,  looking  like  some  little  female 
Mephistopheles  come  to  tenipt  a  modern  Faust.  He 
l^ut  up  his  eye-glass  to  look  at  her.  \Vhat  a  gorgeous 
little  creature  she  vas  !     It  was  his  hrst  thought. 

In  the  dim  yellow  Hght  of  the  conservatory,  the  amber  silk 
glittered  with  its  pristine  lustre,  the  yellow  roses  she  wore 
made  such  an  admirable  foil  to  her  dead  black  hair. 

"  What  the  deuce  brings  me  here  ?  Don't  trouble  yourself  to 
ask  the  question,  vwn  ami,  your  fice  asks  it  for  you.  1'  e 
been  eavesdropj^ing,"  in  her  airiest  tone  ;  "  not  intentionally, 
you  understand,"  as  the  young  man  continued  to  stare  speech- 
lessly at  her  through  his  eye-glass.  "  Entering  the  conserva- 
tory by  the  merest  chance,  I  overheard  Miss  Dangerfield's  last 
worcs  to  you  ;  '  a  little  more  than  kin,  and  less  than  kind,'  were 
they  not?     Permit  me  to  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Dangerfield." 

'"'  Congratulate  me  !  "  Mr.  Dangerfield  repeated,  dropping  his 
double-barrelled  eye-glass  and  glowering  vengefully  at  the  f.,iir 
creature  by  his  side.     "  In   Heaven's  name,  on  what?  " 

"  On  having  escaped  becoming  the  husband  of  a  termagant. 
Believe  me,  not  even  Scarswood  and  eight  thousand  a  year 
Would  counterbalance  so  atrocious  a  temper  as  that." 

*'  Eight  thousand  a  year  would  counterbalance  with  me  even 
a  worse  temper  than  that,  Mrs.  Vavasor,"  the  lawyer  answered, 
grimly.  "  I  am  only  sorry  I  am  not  to  have  tfie  opjjortunity 
of  trying.  Once  my  wife,  1  think  I  could  correct  the  acidity  of 
even  Katherine  Dangerfield's  temper  and  tongue." 

"  No  you  could  not.  Petruchio  himself  would  fail  to  tame 
this  shrew.  You  see,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  I  sprak  from  past 
experience.  I  know  what  kind  of  blood  llows  in  our  spirited 
K.atherine's  veins." 


1 


\W 


AMONG    THE  KOSES. 


37 


"Very  good  blood,  tlien,  T  am  sure — very  good-tempered, 
too,  in  the  main— at  least  on  tin.'  fatiier's  side." 

"  Ah  !  On  the  father's  side  !  "  Tlie  sneer  with  Avhich  tliis 
was  said  is  indescribable.  *'  May  I  ask  if  you  knew  her  mother, 
Mr.  Dangerfield?" 

*'  Certainly  1  did — a  deucedly  fmc  woman,  too,  and  as  ami- 
able  as  she  was  handsome.  Colonel  Dangcrfield — Sir  John 
was  colonel  then — married  a  Miss  Lascelles,  and  Katherine  was 
born  in  this  very  house,  while  they  were  making  their  Christ- 
mas visit.  Yon  may  have  known  her  father  and  mother — yon 
certainly  seem  to  know  Sir  John  suspiciously  well— but  don't 
tell  me  Katherine  took  her  tantrums  from  either  of  them — I 
know  better." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  listened  quietl}'',  adjusting  her  bracelets,  and 
burst  out  laughing  when  he  ceased. 

"I  see  you  do — you  know  all  about  it.  How  old  was  Kath- 
erine when  her  father  and  mother  left  P^ngland  for  India?  " 

"Two  or  three  years,  or  thereabouts.  It  seems  to  me — 
being  so  well  accpainted,  and  all  that,  as  you  say — you  ought 
to  know  yourself.  Was  it  in  England  or  India  you  came  to 
know  the  Ciovernor  so  well?" 

"In  neither,  Mr.  Dangcrfield." 

"  Or  does  your  acquamtance  extend  only  to  the  baronet  ? 
Gad!  he  looked  like  an  incarnate  thunder-cloud  when  present- 
ing you.  His  past  remembrances  of  you  must  be  uncommonly 
l)leasant  ones,  I  should  say.  Did  you  know  the  late  Mrs. 
Colonel  Dangcrfield,  Mrs.  Vavasor  ?  " 

"I  knew  the  late  Mrs.  Colonel  Dangcrfield,  Mr.  Danger- 
field." 

"  And  yet  you  say  Katherine  takes  her  temper  from  her 
mother.  My  late  aunt-in-law  must  have  greatly  changed,  then, 
from  the  time  I  saw  her  last." 

_"  I  repeat  it,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  said,  tapping  her  fan.  "  Kath- 
erine inherits  her  most  abominable  temper  from  her  mother,  the 
only  inheritance  her  mother  ever  left  her.  And  she  looks  like 
her — wonderfully  like  her — i-<?  like,"  Airs.  Vavasor  repeated  in 
a  strange,  suppressed  voice,  "  that  I  could  almost  take  her  for 
a  ghost  in  pink  gauze." 

"  Like  her  mother !  "  cried  Peter  Dangcrfield.  "  1  beg  your 
pardon,  Mrs.  Vavisor,  but  you  must  be  dreaming.  She  is  no 
more  like  her  mother  than  I  am.  The  late  Mrs.  Dangcrfield 
was  a  handsome  woman." 

"  Which  our  spirited  heiress  never  will  be.     I  agree  with  you, 


38 


AMONG   THE  ROSES. 


i 


Mr.  Dnnp;ern''ld  ;  and  yet  yon  told  nic  you  were  in  love  with 

iuM,  aiul  wantiid  to  marry  li<;r." 

"  I  Mu.-ant  what  1  said,"  the  young  man  responded,  sullenly. 
"1  do  want  to  marry  hor." 

'*  Or  lu:r  furtunc — which  ?" 

"I  don't  see  that  that'suny  business  of  yours,  IVTrs.  Vavasor  ; 
and  I  don't  see  what  I  am  standinj^  hero  abusing  KaUierine  to 
you  for.  You  don't  like  her,  do  you  ?  Now  what  has  she  ever 
done  to  you  ?  " 

"Nothing  whatever— /haven't  seen  Katherinc  until  to-night 
for  fifteen  years.  She  was  two  years  old  then — a  little  demoi- 
selle in  i)antaleltes,  and  too  young  to  have  an  enemy." 

"Yet  you  are  her  enemy,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  and  you  sit  at  her 
table  and  eat  her  bread  and  salt.  And  you  speak  of  her  mother 
as  if  you  detested  her.  Js  it  for  the  mother's  sake  jou  hate  the 
daughter  ?" 

"  For  the  mother's  sake."  She  repeated  the  four  short  words 
with  a  concentrated  bitterness  that  rather  rcp(;lled  her  compan- 
ion. "And  you  hate  her  for  her  own,  Mr.  Dangerfield."  She 
laid  her  little  hand  suddenly  and  sharply  on  his  ari.i,  and  sent 
thewords  in  hisear  in  a  sibillant  whisper.  "We  boti.  ..ate  h('r  ; 
let  us  make  common  cause  together,  and  have  our  revenge." 

Peter  Dangerfield  threw  off  the  gloved  hand  that  felt  unpleas- 
antly like  a  steel  manacle  on  his  wrist. 

"  Don't  be  melodramatic,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Re- 
venge, indeed.  And  1  a  lawyer.  You  would  make  an  uncom- 
monly good  first  actress,  my  dear  madam,  but  in  ]irivate  life 
your  histrionic  talents  are  quite  thrown  away.  Revenge  I  bah  ! 
\\\\y  the  vendetta  has  gone  out  of  fashion  even  in  Corsica.  We 
don't  live  in  the  days  of  the  handsome  Lucrezia,  when  a  per- 
fumed rose  or  a  pair  of  Jouvin's  best  kids  sent  one's  adversary 
to  glory.  There  is  no  such  word  as  revenge  in  these  latter 
days,  my  dear  madam.  If  one's  wife  runs  away  from  one  with 
some  other  fellow,  we  don't  follow  and  wipe  out  our  dishonor 
in  his  blood  ;  we  simply  go  to  Sir  Creswell  and  get  a  divorce. ' 
If  we  runaway  witJi  some  other  fellow's  wife,  that  other  fellow 
sues  us  for  damages,  and  makes  a  good  thing  of  it.  Believe 
me,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  revenge  is  a  word  that  will  soon  be  obsolete, 
except  on  theatrical  boards.  Bat  at  the  same  time  I  should  like 
to  know  -what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  is  that  you  sing  me  there  ?  "  Mrs.  Vavasor  cried,  ir, 
the  French  idiom  she  used  when  excited.  "  While  the  world 
lasts,  and  men  love,  and  hate,  and  use  swords  and  pistols,  re- 


AMONG    THE  KOSES. 


39 


ove  with 

sullenly. 


Vavasor  ; 
icriiie  to 
she  ever 

1  to-nip;ht 
le  demoi- 

;it  at  her 

r  inotlicr 

1  hate  the 

ort  words 
compan- 

cld."  She 
and  sent 

.ate  her ;. 

/eni;c." 

it  unpleas- 

sor.  Re- 
in uncom- 
rivate  life 
ige  I  bah  ! 
i^ica.  \Ve 
len  a  per- 
advcrsary 
icse  latter 
1  one  with 
•  dishonor 
a  divorce.' 
her  fellow 
Iklieve 
;  obsolete, 
houkl  like 

r  cried,  ir» 

the  world 

pistols,  re- 


venge will  never  go  out  of  fashion.  And  you  hate  your  consin 
— hateherso  that  if  looks  were  liL^htniiv^  she  would  havt;  fallen 
at  your  feet  ten  minutes  ago.  W\  Utile  rickety  dKhirfy  She 
laughed  her  shrill,  somewhat  clfisli  laugh.  "  Not  a  pleasant 
name  to  be  called,  Mr.  Dangerfield." 

His  face  blaekened  at  the  remembrance,  his  smnll,  pale  eyes 
shot  forth  that  steely  fire  light  blue  eyes  only  can  Hash. 

"  Why  do  you  reinind  me  of  that  ?  "  he  said  hoarsely.  "  She 
did  not  mean  it — she  said  so." 

"She  saidso — she  said  so  I  "  his  companion  cried,  scornfully. 
"Peter  Dangerfield,  you're  not  the  man  I  take  you  for  if  you 
endure  quietly  such  an  insult  as  that.  And  look  at  her  now, 
with  Gaston  Dantree,  that  penniless  tenor  singer,  with  the  voice 
of  an  angel  and  the  face  of  a  god.  ],ook  how  she  smiles  up  at 
him.  Did  she  ever  giv;  you  such  a  glance  as  that  ?  See  how 
he  bends  over  her  and  whispers  in  her  ear.  Did  siie  ever  listen 
to  3-ou  with  that  happy  face,  those  drooping,  downcast  eyes  ? 
\\\\y  she  loves  that  man — that  impoverished  adventurer  ;  and 
love  and  h;ipi)iness  make  hei  almost  beautiful.  And  she  called 
you  a  rickety  dwarf  Perhaps  even  now  they  are  laughing  over 
it  rather  as  a  good  joke." 

"  Woman  !  Devil !  "  her  victim  burst  out,  goaded  to  frenr.y. 
"  You  lie  !  Katherine  Dangerfield  would  stoop  to  no  such  base- 
ness as  that !  " 

"  Would  she  not  ?  You  have  yet  to  learn  to  what  depths  ot 
baseness  women  like  her  can  stoop.  She  has  bad,  bitter  bad 
blood  in  her  veins,  I  tell  you.  She  comes  of  a  daring  and  un- 
scrui)ulous  race.  Oh,  don't  look  at  me  like  that — I  don't  mean 
the  Dangerhelds.  And  you  will  bear  her  merciless  taunt,  and 
stand  quietly  by  while  she  marries  yonder  handsome  coxcomb, 
and  go  and  be  best  man  at  the  wedding,  and  take  your  hat  off 
forever  after  when  you  meet  Gaston  Dantree,  Lord  of  Scars- 
wood  Park.  Bah  !  Peter  Dangerfield,  you  must  have  milk  and 
water  in  your  veins  instead  of  blood,  and  I  am  only  wasting 
my  time  here  talking  to  you.  I'll  detain  you  no  longer.  I 
wish  you  good-evening." 

She  had  goaded  him  to  the  right  point  at  last.  As  she  turned 
to  go  he  caught  her  arm  fiercely  and  held  her  back. 

"Stay!"  he  cried  hoarsely;  "you  shall  not  go  I  You  do 
well  to  say  1  hate  her.  And  she  shall  never  marry  Gaston 
Dantree  if  I  can  prevent  it.  Only  show  me  the  way  how  !  Only 
show  me ! "  he  exclaimed,  breathless  and  hoarse,  "  and  see 
whether  I  have  blood  in  my  veins  instead  of  milk  and  water — 


5'  i 


:i    .. 


40 


AMONG    THE  ROSES. 


a  man's  passions  in  my  heart — though  it   be  the  heart  of  a 
rickety  dwarf! "     • 

Ah  !  that  blow  struck  home. 

'•'  Look  at  Ihem  once  again,  I\Tr,  Dangcrlield,  lest  your  brave 
resohitions  should  cool — look  at  Kalherine  Dangerfield  and  her 
lover  iiGwy 

The  baronet's  daughter  was  waltzing  again — she  had  a  pas- 
sionate love  of  dancing,  and  lloated  with  the  native  grace  of  a 
Bayadere. 

ShcAvas  waltzing  with  Dantree,  her  long  rose-wreathed  brown 
hair  tloaring  over  his  shoulder,  her  hapi)y  face  uplifted  as  she 
whirled  down  the  long  vista  in  his  arms  to  the  intoxicating 
music  of  the  "  Guard's  AValtz." 

*' You  see  !  "  Mrs.  Vavasor  said  significantly;  "he  who  runs 
may  read,  and  he  who  stands  slill  may  understand.  His  melan- 
choly tenor  voice,  his  lover-like  sighs,  his  dark,  pathetic  eyes 
have  done  their  work — Katherine  IJangerfield  is  in  love  with 
(laston  Dantree  !  It  is  a  very  old  story  :  a  lady  of  high  degree 
has  'stooped  to  conquer.'  Sir  John  won't  take  it,  J  dare  say; 
but  could  Sir  John  refuse  his  idolized  darling  anything  ?  If  she 
cried  for  the  moon  she  would  have  it.  And  she  is  so  impetuous, 
dear  child  !  She  will  be  Mrs.  Gaslon  Dantree  in  the  time  it 
would  lake  another  young  lady  to  decide  the  color  of  the  brides- 
maid's dresses." 

"  She  shall  never  be  Mrs.  Gaston  Dantree  if  I  can  prevent 
it !  "  Peter  D;ingerfield  cried,  vehemently,  his  pale  blue  eyes 
filled  wifii  lurid  rage. 

"  Yes,  but  unha[)j)ily  there  is  the  rub — if  ypu  can  prevent  it. 
You  don't  suppose  now,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  said,  thoughtfully,  "this 
Mr.  Dantree  is  in  love  with  her?" 

"  I  know  nothiug  about  it.  He  looks  as  though  he  were,  at 
least — and  be  hanged  to  iiim  ?  " 

■■That  tells  nothing.  She  is  the  heiress  of  Scarswood.  and 
Mr.  Dantree — like  yourself,  I  haven't  a  doubt — is  in  love  widi 
that.  I  wonder  if  either  of  you  would  want  to  marry  her  if  she 
hadn't  a  <arUiing — if  her  brown  hair  and  her  fine  figure  were  her 
only  fortune  ?  " 

"  I  can  answer  for  myself — I  would  see  her  at  the  deuce 
first ! " 

"  And  unless  I  greatly  mistake  him,  Mr.  Dantree  would  also. 
How  she  looks  up  at  him  !  how  she  smiles  ! — her  infatuation  is 
parent  to  llic  whole  room.  And  after  her,  you  are  the  heir-at- 
law,  Mr.  Dangerfield." 


AMONG   THE  FOSES. 


4X 


"I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  it,"  the  young  man 
retorted,  sulkily.  "  I  am  likely  to  remain  heir-at-law  to  the 
end  of  my  days,  for  what  I  see.  The  governor  will  go  off  the 
hooks,  and  she  will  marry,  and  there  will  be  a  son — haif-a-dozeii 
of  'em,  most  likely — and  my  cake  is  dough.  I  wisii  you  wouldn't 
talk  about  it  at  all ;  it's  of  no  use,  a  man  howling  his  life  out  for 
what  he  never  can  get." 

"  Certainly  not — for  what  he  can't  get ;  but  I  don't  perceive 
the  *  can't  get '  in  this  case.  Tin-ee  people  stood  between  Colo- 
nel Dangerlield  and  the  title  six  months  ago,  and  they — as  you 
express  it  in  the  elegantly  allegorical  language  of  the  da}'' — 
'went  off  the  hooks;'  and  lo  !  our  Indian  ofiicer,  all  in  a 
moment,  steps  into  three  pairs  of  dead  men's  shoes,  a  title,  and 
a  fortune.  Scarswood  may  change  hands  unexpectedly  before 
the  year  ends  again." 

"Mrs.  Vavasor — if  that  be  }-our  name — /don't  understand 
you.  What's  the  use  of  badgering  a  man  in  this  way  ?  If 
you've  got  anything  to  say,  say  it.  I  never  was  any  hand  at 
guessing  riddles,     ^\'hat  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  gayly. 

"  Forcible,  but  not  polite  !  Did  you  ever  have  your  fortune 
told,  Mr.  Dangerlield?-  I  have  some  gypsy  blood  in  my  veins. 
Give  me  your  liand,  and  I'll  tell  it,  without  the  proverbial  piece 
of  silver." 

He  held  it  out  mechanically.  Under  all  this  riddle-like  talk, 
he  knew  some  strong  meaning,  very  nnich  to  the  point,  la}\ 
What  could  she  mean  ?  Who  could  she  be  ?  She  took  his  thin, 
])ale,  cold  hand,  and  i)ecred  into  the  palm,  with  the  prettiest 
fortune-telling  air  imaginable. 

"A  strangely  checiuered  palm,  my  gentleman  ;  all  its  strange 
future  to  come.  1  see  a  past,  quiet  and  uneventful.  1  see  a 
character,  thoroughly  selfish,  avaricious,  and  unprinci[)led.  No, 
don't  take  your  hand  away  ;  it  will  do  you  good  lo  hear  the 
truth  once  in  a  way,  Mr.  Dangerfield.  You  can  hate  with  tiger- 
ish intensity  ;  you  would  commit  any  crime  under  Heaven  for 
money,  so  that  you  were  never  likely  to  be  found  out.  You 
care  for  nobody  but  yourself,  and  you  never  will.  A  woman 
stands  in  3-our  i)ath  to  fortune — a  wonian  you  hate.  That  ob- 
stacle will  be  removed.  1  see  here  a  ruined  home  ;  and  over 
ruin  and  death  you  step  into  fortune.  Don't  ask  me  how. 
The  lines  don't  tell  that,  just  yet ;  they  may  very  soon.  You 
are  to  be  a  baronet,  and  the  time  is  very  near.  How  do  you 
like  your  fortune,  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  that  is  to  be  ?  " 


42 


AMONG    THE  ROSES. 


She  dropped  his  hand  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  stream- 
ing fire  in  her  black  eycH. 

"  liush-h-ii !  fur  Heaven's  sake  !  "  he  whispered,  in  terror. 
**  If  you  should  be  overheard  !  " 

"  l]ut  how  do  you  like  it?" 

"There  can  be  no  question  of  that.  Only  1  don't  under- 
stand. You  are  mocking  \\\^..  What  you  predict  can  never 
happen." 

"Why  not?" 

"  "W^hy  not !  why  not !  "  he  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "  You 
don't  need  to  ask  that  question.  Katherine  Dangerfield  stands 
between  me  ;  a  life  as  good — better  than  my  own." 

The  little  temptress  in  amber  silk  laid  her  canary-colored 
glove  on  his  wrist  and  drew  him  close  to  her. 

"What  1  predict  will  happen,  as  surely  as  we  stand  here. 
Don't  ask  me  how;  I  can't  tell  you  to-night.  There's  a  secret 
in  Sir  John  Dangerfield's  life — a  secret  1  have  been  ])aid  well 
to  keep,  which  1  have  kept  for  fifteen  years,  whicii  no  money 
M'ill  make  me  keep  much  longer.  I  have  a  debt  of  long  stand- 
ing to  pay  off — a  debt  of  vengeance,  contracted  before  Kather- 
ine Dangerfield  was  born,  which  Katherine  Dangerfield  yet 
must  ]3ay.  What  will  you  give  me  if  within  the  next  three 
months  I  make  you  heir  of  Scarswood?  " 

"You?" 

"It  is  impossible  I  " 

"  It  is  not !  "  She  stamped  her  foot.  "  Quick  1  Tell  me  ! 
What  will  you  give  ?  " 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  don't  mean  that  you  shall  yet.  Will  you  give  me  ten 
thousand  pounds  the  day  that  makes  you — through  me,  mind — 
lord  of  Scarswood  ?  Quick  !  Here  come  our  lovers.  Yes  or 
no?" 

"  IVJT." 

"It  is  well.  I  sliall  have  your  bond  instead  of  your  promise 
soon.  Not  a  whisMcr  of  tliis  to  a  living  mortal,  or  all  is  at  an 
end.  We  are  swc/-n  allies,  then,  from  this  night  forth.  Shake 
hands  upon  it." 

'J'hey  clasped  h>;nds. 

He  shivered  a  little,  unprincipled  though  he  Avas,  as  he  fefl 
the  cold,  steely  clasj)  of  her  gloved  lingers.  She  glanced  up, 
a  Hash  of  triumi)h  lighting  her  eyes,  to  where  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfield, still  leaning  on  her  handsome  lover's  arm,  approached. 


LOVE    UNDER   THE  LAMPS. 


.e,  stream- 
in  terror. 

on't  under- 
can  never 


43 


"  Now,  tlien,  my  baronet's  daughter — my  haughty  little 
heirefs — look  to  yourself!  I  am  a  woman  who  never  yet 
s])arctl  friend  or  foe  who  stood  in  my  path.      VlR  victis  /" 

She  vanished  as  she  spoke  ;  and  Peter  Dangerlield,  feeling 
like  a  man  in  a  dream,  his  head  in  a  whirl,  glided  after  her,  as 
his  cousin  and  her  cavalier  stepped  under  the  arch  of  rose  and 
myrtle. 


tly.     "  You 
;rfield  stands 

nary-colored 

stand  here. 
ire's  a  secn^t 
;en  i^aid  well 
A\  no  money 
)f  long  stand- 
efore  Kather- 
mgerfield  yet 
le  next  three 


:k  1     Tell  me  ! 


I  give  me  ten 
igh  me,  mind — 
overs.     Yes  or 


3f  your  promise 

,  or  all  is  at  an 
it  forth.     Shake 


was,  as  he  fetl 
She  glanced  up, 
Katherine  Dan- 
rm,  approached. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


LOVE   UNDER   THK    LAMPS. 


m 


OW  charmingly  cool  it  is  here,"  Miss  Dangerfield's 
fresh  young  voice  was  saying,  as  they  came  in  ;  "  how 
bewitching  is  this  pale  moonshiny  sort  of  lampliglit 
among  the  orange  trees  and  myrtles;  and  oh!  Mr. 
Dantree,  how  delicious  that  last  waltz  was.  You  have  my  step 
as  nobody  else  has  it,  and  you  waltz  so  light — so  light !  it 
has  been  a  heav  nly  evening  altogether  !  " 
.  She  threw  herself  into  a  rustic  chair  as  she  spoke,  where 
trailing  vines  and  crimson  bloom  formed  a  brilliant  arch  over 
her  head,  and  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  that  shone  like  stars. 

**  1  wonder  if  it  is  only  because  balls  and  parties  are  such 
rar6  things  to  me  that  1  have  enjoyed  this  so  greatly,  or  be- 
cause I  am  just  seventeen,  and  everything  is  delightful  at 
seventeen  ;  or  because — because — Mr.  Dantree,  I  wonder  if 
you  have  enjoyed  yourself?" 

"  1  have  been  in  paradise.  Miss  Dangerlield." 

"  And  how  gloomily  he  says  it — and  how  pale  and  wretched 
he  looks,"  laughed  Katherine.  "'"Your  paradise  can't  be  any 
great  things,  judging  by  your  face  at  this  moment ! " 

"Miss  Dangerfield,  it  is  because  my  paradise  has  been  so 
perilously  sweet  that  I  look  gloomy.  The  world  outside,  bleak 
and  barren,  must  have  looked  trebly  bleak  to  Eve  when  she 
left  Eden." 

"Eve  shouldn't  have  left  it  then — she  should  have  had 
sense  and  left  the  templing  apple  alone." 

"Ah,  but  it  was  so  templing,  and  it  hung  so  deliciously 
within  reach  !  And  Iwe  forgot,  as  1  have  done,  everylhii.g, 
the  filial  penalty — all  but  the  heavenly  sweetness  of  the  passing 
moment." 


; 

i 

j 

i 

r 

i 

44 


LOVE    UNDER    THE  LAMPS. 


"Well,"  Miss  Dangeifield  said,  fluttering  her  fan,  and  look- 
ing upward,  "  I  may  be  stupid,  Mr.  Danlree,  but  1  don't  (^uite 
catch  your  nietaphor.  Eve  ate  ihat  afiple  several  thousand 
years  ago,  and  was  very  properly  punished,  but  what  has  that 
to  do  with  yon  ?  " 

"  llecause  I,  like  Eve,  have  eaten  my  api)le  to-night,  and  to- 
morrow, the  gates  of  jny  earthly  paradise  close  upon  me  for- 
ever." 

Divested  of  its  adjuncts — there  Avasn't  much,  perhaps,  in 
this  speech ;  but  given  a  young  lady  of  seventeen,  of  a  poetic 
and  sentimental  turn  of  mind — soft,  sweet  music  swelling  in 
the  distance — a  dim  light — the  fragrance  of  troi)ic  llowers  and 
warmth,  <?;/</ a  rcmarka.bly  good-looking  young  man — it  implies 
a  great  deal.  1  le  certainly  looked  dangerously  handsome  at 
this  moment,  with  his  jxde  IKronic  face,  his  fathohiless  dark 
eyes,  his  whc^le  air  of  impassioned  melancholy — a  beauty  as 
fatal  as  the  serpent  to  Eve  in  his  own  allegory. 

No  doubt  that  ser[)ent  came  to  our  frail  fust  mother  in  very 
beautiful  guise,  else  she  had  never  listened  to  his  seductive 
words. 

The  soft  while  lace,  the  cluster  of  blush-roses  on  Katherine's 
breast,  rose  and  fell.  She  was  only  seventeen,  and  over  head 
and  ears  in  love,  poor  child. 

She  laughed  at  his  romantic  v/ords,  but  there  was  a  little 
tremor  in  her  clear  tones  as  she  si)()ke  : 

"Such  a  sentimental  speech,  Mr.  Dantree.  Sussex  is  a  very 
nice  county,  and  Scarswood  a  very  agreeable  place,  no  doubt  ; 
but  neither  quite  constitute  my  idea  of  paradise.  And  what  do 
you  mean  by  sayingyou  leave  to-morrow?"  • 

"  I  mean  1  dare  slay  no  longer.  1  should  never  have  come 
here  at  all — I  wish  to  Heaven  1  never  had  ! '' 

It  was  drawing  near  !  Iler  heart  was  throbbing  with  rapt- 
ure ;  she  loved  him,  and  she  knew  what  was  coming,  but  still 
she  i^arried  her  own  delight. 

"Please  don't  be  profane,  Mr.  Dantree.  You  wish  you  had 
never  come  ?  Now  I  call  that  an}lhing  but  complimentary  to 
the  neighborhood  and  to  7ne.  ]'e  kind  enough  to  exi)lain  your- 
self, sir.     ^\'hy  do  you  wish  you  had  never  come  ?  " 

"  IJecause  I  have  been  mad — because  1  am  mad.  Oh, 
Katherine  !  can't  you  see  ?  A\"hy  will  you  make  me  speak 
what  I  should  die  rather  than  iitler?  \\'hy  will  you  make  me 
confess  my  madness — confess  that  1  love  jvv/" 

He  made  an  impassioned  gesture,  and    urned  away.     Mac- 


LOVr.    UNDER    Tim  LAMPS. 


45 


was  a  little 


have  come 


Lway.     jSIac- 


ready  could  noc  iiavc  done  it  better.  His  voice,  his  glance, 
his  passionate  words,  were  tlie  perfection  of  first-class  drama. 
And  then  there  was  dead  silence. 

"  You  do  not  si)eak  !  "  he  cried.  *'  I  have  shocked  yon  ;  }oii 
hate,  you  despise  nic  as  I  deserve  !  "  lie  was  really  getting 
alariiied  in  i-[)ite  of  his  conviction  ;'^at  she  was  hopelessly  in 
love  with  him.  "Well,  I  deserve  it  all  !  I  stand  before  you 
penniless,  with  neither  noble  name  nor  fortune  to  offer  you,  and 
I  dare  to  tell  you  of  my  hopeless  passion.  Katherine,  forgive 
me  ! " 

The  rich  green  carpet  was  soft,  there  was  no  one  to  see,  and 
he  sank  gracefully  on  one  knee  before  her,  and  bowed  his  head 
over  her  hand. 

"Forgive  me  if  you  can,  and  tell  me  to  go  !" 

Then  his  soft  tenor  tones  died  away  pianissimo  in  stifled 
emotion,  and  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  mustached  lips.  It 
trembled — with  an  ecsJacy  too  great  for  words.  He  loved  her 
like  this — her  matchless  darling — antl  he  told  her  to  bid  him 
go  '  Her  fingers  closed  over  his,  tighter  and  tighter — she  bent 
down  until  he  could  almost  hear  the  loud  throbbing  of  her  heart. 

"Go!"  she  whispered,  faintly.  "Gaston,  1  should  die  if 
you  left  me  !  " 

He  clas[)ed  both  her  hands,  with  a  wild,  theatrical  start,  and 
gazed  at  her  in  incredulous  amaze. 

"Kathruine  !  do  you  know  what  j-ou  say?  Have  I  heard 
you  aright.-^  For  pity's  sake,  do  not  mock  me  in  my  despera- 
tion— do  not  lift  me  for  a  moment  to  Heaven  only  to  cast  me 
out  again  !  It  cannot  be — it  is  maddest  presimiption  of  me  to 
hope  that  you  love  me  !" 

ller  hands  closed  oiily  the  mere  closely  over  his ;  her  head 
drooped,  her  soft,  abundant  brown  hair  hieing  its  tremor  of 
bliss. 

"  I  never  hoped  for  this,"  he  said  ;  "  I  never  thought  of  this  ! 
I  knew  it  was  my  destiny — my  madness — to  adoue  you  ;  but 
never — no,  never  in  my  wildest  dream — did  I  dare  hope  you 
could  stoop  to  me.  My  darling — say  it  just  once,  that  I  may 
know  I  am  awake!"  He  was  very  wide-awake,  indeed,  at 
that  moment.  "  Say  just  once,  my  own  heart's  darling,  'Gas- 
ton, 1  love  you  ! ' " 

She  said  it,  her  face  hidden  in  his  superfine  coat-facingS;  hei 
voice  trembling,  every  vein  in  her  body  thrilling  with  rai)iure. 

And  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  smiled — a  half-amused,  a  half-ex- 
ultant smile  of  triumph. 


Hi 


46 


LOVE    UNDER    THE  LAMPS. 


"I've  played  for  high  stakes  before,"  he  thought;  "but 
never  so  higli  as  this,  or  with  half  so  easy  a  victory.  And — 
oh,  powers  of  vengeance  ! — if  AFarie  should  ever  hnd  this  out  ! 
There's  only  one  drawback  now — the  old  man.  The  girl  may 
be  a  fool,  but  he's  not.  There'll  be  no  end  of  a  row  when  this 
conies  out." 

She  lii'ied  her  head  from  his  shoulder  and  looked  up  at  him, 
shy  and  sweet. 

"And  you  really  care  for  nie  like  this,  Gaston,  and  you 
really  thought  I  would  let  you  go — you  really  thought  the  dif- 
ference in  wealth  and  rank  between  us  would  be  any  difference 
to  me  ?     How  little  you  know  me  !  " 

"  I  knew  you  for  the  best,  the  dearest,  the  loveliest  of  all 
women.  But  your  father,  Katheriiie — he  will  never  consent  to 
a  poor  artist  like  me  coming  and  wooing  his  darliiig." 

"  You  don't  know  him,  Claslon  ;  jxipa  would  do  anything  on 
earth  to  p/lease  me — anything.  When  he  discovers  how  we 
love  each  other,  he  will  never  stand  between  us.  He  lives  but 
to  make  me  hap[)y." 

"  You  are  sure  of  this,  Katherine  ?  " 

"  Certain,  Gaston  ;  your  poverty  will  be  no  obstacle  to 
him." 

"  Then  he's  a  greater  fool  than  I  take  him  for,"  thought  Mr. 
Dantree.  "*  If  I  were  in  his  place,  I  would  kick  Gaston  Dan- 
tree  out  of  the  room.  (]ood  Heavens  1  if  I  should  marry  tiiis 
girl  and  it  should  get  to  i\[arie's  ears  1  If — I  shall  marry  her — 
come  what  may.  Eight  tho  'sand  a  year  at  stake,  and  Marie 
the  only  obstacle  in  the  way,  and  hundreds  of  leagues  of  sea 
and  land  between  me  and  that  obstacle  !  There  is  no  turninj^ 
back  now  ;  come  what  may,  I  shall  marry  the  heiress  of  Scars- 
wood."  He  turned  to  her  with  almost  real  passion  in  his  voico 
now. 

"  Katherine,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his  and  look' 
ing  in  her  eyes,  "whatever  betides,  for  good  or  for  ill,  you  will 
not  -'iaw  back — for  good  or  for  evil  you  are  viine'V^ 

She  met  his  eyes  full  for  the  first  time.  Siie  was  pale,  but 
there  was  no  tremor  in  her  voice  as  she  slowly  repeated  Ins 
Avords.     Clearly  and  firmly  they  came  : 

"  Yours,  (iaston — yours  only.  For  good  or  for  evil,  to  the 
end  of  my  life — yours  !  " 

Vox  good  or  for  evil  ! — ominous  words. 

For  good  or  for  evil  ihe  vow  was  plighted  ;  and  she  stood 
under  the  lamps  pledged  to  become  Gaston  Dantree's  wife. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


47 


CHAPTER  V. 


obstacle   to 


BEFORE    BREAKFAST. 

N  the  bleak,  raw  dawn  of  the  wet  October  mornnig, 
Sir  Jolin  Dangertield's  guests  went  home.  While  tlie 
lamps  still  gleamed  among  the  [lowers  on  the  landing 
and  stairways,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  trailing  the  yellow  glim- 
mer of  her  silk  robe  behind  her,  went  up  to  her  own  room — 
went  up  with  the  fag-end  of  a  tune  between  her  lips,  a  feverish 
lustre  in  her  eyes,  a  feverish  Hush,  not  all  rouge,  on  her  checks, 
looking,  as  a  hopeless  adorer  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  quoted  : 

"  In  her  lovely  silken  murmur 
Like  .in  angel  clad  wixli  wings," 

The  adorer  had  taken  a  great  deal  of  clinmpagne  at  supper 
and  hiccoughs  interrupted  the  poetic  tlow  of  the  quotation. 

So  also  had  Mrs.  Vavasor  herself  Perhaps  a  little  of  the 
brilliancy  of  eyes  and  color  were  due  to  the  Cliquot,  but  then  a 
good  deal  more  was  owing  to  triumph.  Everything  was  going 
on  so  well.  The  little  debt  she  had  waited  so  long  to  pay  off 
was  in  a  fair  way  to  receive  a  full  receipt. 

Peter  Dangerlield  was  ])liant  as  wax  in  her  hands.  Gaston 
Dantree  was  the  man  of  all  men  whom  she  would  have  chosen 
for  Katherine  Dangerfield's  affianced  husband.  And  Sir  John 
had  i)assed  the  night  in  a  sort  of  earthly  purgatory. 

"  Poor  old  Sir  John  !  "  the  little  woman  said,  airily,  to  her- 
self; "  Pm  really  concerned  for  hi"  i.  He  never  did  me  any 
harm — poor  old  soldier.  How  ])lainly  he  shows  his  abhorrence 
of  me  in  his  face  ;  foolish,  uncivilized  old  man.  If  his  precious 
daughter  were  not  so  wrapped  up  in  her  curled  darling  she 
could  not  fail  to  see  it.  I  suppose  our  handsome  tenor  \)ro- 
pof,ed  in  the  conservatory  ?  What  a  capital  joke  it  would  be 
to  let  him  marry  her  after  all,  and  then  speak  out.  I  think  Pll 
wait  until  the  wedding  day.  Ah,  my  lady !  my  lady  !  You 
were  a  great  peeress  and  a  brilliant  woman  in  your  day,  but 
you're  dead  now,  and  forgotten,  and  little  Harriet,  whom  you 
circumvented  so  cleverly,  lives  still,  and  prospers,  and  hates 
you  (lead  as  she  hated  you  alive." 

The  fire  still  burned  on  the  marble  hearth,  the  Avaxlioihts 
glimmered  softly.  She  drew  the  window  cnrtain  and  looked 
out  at  the  rainy  morning  light  struggling  feebly  in  the  stormy 


48 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


gray  sky.  The  elms  and  beeches  rocked  in  (he  October  gale, 
the  s\va}in[^  of  the  ^iant  trees  was  like  ihe  dull  roar'  of  the  sea. 
She  droijped  the  silken  curtain  with  a  shiver  and  turned   away. 

"  It  gives  nie  the  horrors,"  she  muttered  ;  *'  it  makes  me 
think  of  old  age,  and  death,  and  the  grave.  Will  1  live  to  be- 
come  old,  I  wonder?  and  will  I  have  money  enough  left  to 
pay  hirelings  to  smooth  the  last  journey  ?  This  visit  to  Sussex 
will  surely  make  my  fortune,  as  well  as  give  me  my  revenge. 
And  wl'ien — all  is  over — 1  will  go  back  to  Paris — oh,  my  beau- 
tiful Paris  !  and  live  the  rest  of  my  life  there.  AVhether  that 
life  be  long  or  short  I  shall  at  least  have  enjoyed  every  ho'n*  of 
it.  And,  my  lady,  I'll  be  even  with  you  to  the  last,  and  carry 
my  secret  to  the  grave." 

She  crossed  over  to  the  wardrobe  where  they  had  placed  her 
trunks,  0[)ened  one,  and  took  out  a  book  of  cigarette  paper 
and  an  embroidered  tobacco-case. 

"It's  no  use  going  to  bed,"  she  thought.  "I  never  can 
sleej)  at  these  abnormal  hours.  A  cigarette  will  sooth  my 
nerves  better  than  slumber." 

She  began,  with  quick,  deft  fingers,  to  roll  half-a-dozen 
cigarettes,  and  then  lying  back  in  a  luxurious  arm-chair,  with 
two  slender  arched  feet  upon  the  fender,  to  light  and  smoke. 
One  after  another  she  smoked  them  to  the  very  last  ash.  The 
rai"^y  daylight  filled  the  room  as  she  Hung  the  end  of  the  last 
inch  in  the  fire. 

She  arose  with  a  yawn,  extinguished  the  lights,  drew  the 
curtains  and  let  in  the  full  light  of  the  gray,  wet  morning.  The 
great  trees  rocked  wearily  irj  the  high  gale,  a  low  leacien  sky 
lay  over  the  fiat,  wet  downs,  and  nnles  away  the  sea  melted 
drearily  into  the  hori/on,  In  the  pale  bleak  light  brilliant  little 
Mrs.  Vavasor  looked  worn,  and  haggard,  and  ten  years  older 
than  last  night. 

"  Such  a  miserable  morning  !  What  a  wretch  I  must  look 
m  this  light.  Captain  Devcre  paid  me  com[)linients  last  night, 
fell  in  love  with  me,  I  believe,  at  least  as  much  in  love  as  a 
heavy  dragoon  ever  can  fall.  If  he  saw  intj  now  I  I  believe 
I'll  go  to  bed  after  all." 

Airs.  Vavasor  went  to  bed,  and  her  eyes  closed  in  graceful 
slumber  before  her  head  w'as  fiiirly  on  the  ])illow.  And  as  the 
loud-voiced  clock  over  the  stables  chimed  the  (juarter  past  ten 
she  came  fioating  down  the  stairs  in  a  rose-cashmere  robe  de 
matin,  and  all  her  feathery  black  ringlets  alloat. 

"Am  I  first,  1  wonder?"   she  said,  pec[)ing  in.     "Ah,  no; 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


49 


irctte  paper 


dear  Sir  John,  what  an  early  riser  you  always  were.  You  don't 
forget  your  military  iiabits,  though  you  are  one  of  the  wealthiest 
baronets  in  Sussex." 

She  held  out  one  slender  white  hand  all  aglittcr  with  rings. 
But  as  he  had  refused  it  last  nigiit  so  the  baronet  refused  the 
proffered  handclasp  this  morning.  He  stood  tall  and  stern, 
and  grim  as  Rhadamanthus  himself,  drawn  up  ;o  his  full  height. 

•  "  We  are  quite  alone,  Mrs. Vavasor,  since  you  choose  to 

call  yourself  by  that  name,  and  we  can  afford  to  drop  ]irivate 
theatricals.  I  fancied  you  would  be  down  before  Katherine, 
and  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  here  for  the  past  hour. 
Harriet  Harman,  you  ?nust  leave  Scarswood,  and  at  once." 

Sir  John's  guest  had  taken  a  tea-rose  from  a  glass  of  llovviMs 
on  the  breakfast  table,  and  was  elaborately  fastening  it  amid 
the  luxuriance  of  her  black  hair.  She  laughed  as  her  hose 
ceased  speaking,  and  made  the  rose  secure  ere  she  turned 
from  the  mirror. 

"That  is  an  improvement,  I  think — yellow  roses  always  jook 
well  in  black  hair.  What  did  you  say.  Sir  John?  Excuse  my 
inattention,  but  the  toilette  before  everything  with  us  Paris- 
iennes.  I  must  leave  Scarswood  at  once  ?  Now,  really,  my 
dear  baronet,  that  is  a  phase  of  hos[)itality  it  strikes  me  not 
strictly  Arabian.     Why  must  I  go,  and  why  at  once  ?  " 

"  Why  !  you  ask  that  question  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  ask  it.  Why  am  I  not  to  remain  at  Scarswood 
•  as  long  as  I  please  ?  " 

"  Because,"  the  Indian  officer  said,  frigidly.  "  You  are  not 
fit  to  dwell  an  hour,  a  minute,  under  the  same  roof  with — with 
my  daughter.  If  you  had  possessed  a  woman's  heart,  a  shadow 
of  heart,  one  spark  of  womanly  feeling,  you  would  never  have 
crossed  Katherine's  path." 

"  Again  1  ask  why  ?  " 

"  I  have  given  you  your  answer  alread}''.  You  are  not  fit — 
you  are  no  associate  for  any  young  girl.  I  know  the  life  you 
led  at  Homburg." 

"  You  do  ?  And  what  do  you  know  of  that  life  to  my  dis- 
credit?" Mrs.  Vavasor  demanded,  in  her  sprighiHest  manner. 
"  I  sadly  fear  some  malicious  person  has  been  poisoning  your 
simple  mind,  my  dear  Sir  John.  I  received  a  salary  at  Hom- 
burg, I  admit ;  I  lured  a  few  weak-minded  victims,  with  more 
money  than  brains,  to  the  Kursaal  ;  I  gambled  ever  so  little 
perhaps  myself  But  what  would  you  have?  Poor  little 
women  must  live,  penniless  widows  must  earn  their  bread  and 
8 


p-wga 


50 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


\  \ 


m 


•1'    I 

I  If  I 


it 


butter,  and  I  labored  according  to  my  light.  Who  can  blome 
me  ?  A  gambler's  decoy  is  not  a  very  reputable  profession, 
but  I  did  not  select  it  because  1  liked  il.  As  you  say  here  in 
England,  it  was  *  Ilobson's  choice.'  'I'o  work  I  was  not  able, 
to  beg  I  was  ashamed.  And  I  gave  it  u[),  when  I  heard  of 
your  good  fortune,  forever,  I  hope.  I  said  to  myself,  '  Harriet, 
child,  why  leid  this  naughty  life  any  longer  ? — why  not  give  it 
up,  pack  your  trunks,  go  back  to  ICngland,  and  become  virlu- 
ou^^  md  happy  ?  Here  is  your  old  friend — well,  acciuaintance, 
then — Colonel  Dangerfiekl,  a  baronet  now,  with  a  magnificent 
estate  in  Sussex,  and  eight  thousand  a  year.  You  did  him  good 
service  once — he  is  not  the  man  to  forget  past  favors  ;  he 
will  never  see  you  hungry  or  cold  any  more.  And  la  pdite 
is  I.  ere — the  little  Katherine,  whom  fifteen  years  ago  you  were 
so  fond  of — a  young  lady,  and  a  great  heiress  now.  To  see 
her  once  more,  grown  from  a  lovely  English  Miss — what  rapt- 
ure I "  _  . 

She  clasped  her  little  hands  with  a  very  foreign  gesture,  and 
lifted  two  great  imploring  eyes  to  his  face.  The  baronet 
sighed  heavily. 

"  Heaven  help  you,  Harriet !  You  might  have  been  a  better 
woman  if  you  had  loved  the  child,  or  anything  else.  Ikit  you 
never  loved  any  human  creature  in  this  world  but  yourself,  and 
never  will.     I  suppose  it  is  not  in  your  nature." 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  swift  pallor  of  sudden  strong 
emotion  show  under  rouge  and  pearl  powder  ?  It  is  not  a 
pleasant  sight.  After  the  baronet's  last  words  there  was  a  dead 
pause,  and  in  the  dull,  chill  light  he  saw  that  ghastly  change 
come  over  her. 

"Never  loved  any  human  creature  in  this  world!"  She 
repeated  his  words  slowly  after  him,  then  broke  suddenly  into 
a  shrill  laugh.  "  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  after  half  a  century  of 
this  life's  vicissitudes,  the  power  to  be  astonished  at  anything 
earthly  should  have  left  all  men  and  women,  but  you  are  sixty 
odd,  are  you  not  ?  and  if  I  chose  I  could  give  you  a  glimpse 
of  my  past  life  that  would  rather  take  you  by  surprise.  But  I 
don't  choose — at  least  not  at  present.  Think  me  heartless, 
unprincii)led,  without  conscience  or  womanly  feeling — what 
you  will — what  docs  anything  in  this  lower  world  signify  except 
cosily  dresses,  good  wines,  and  comfortable  incomes  ?  And 
that  brings  me  back  to  the  point,  and  I  tell  you  coolly  and  de- 
lil)erately,  and  determinedly,  that  J.  won't  stir  one  step  from 
Scarswood  Park  until  1  see  lit." 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


51 


She  folded  her  hands  one  over  the  other,  and  looked  up  in 
his  set,  stern  face,  with  an  aggravating  smile  on  her  own. 

•'  It  is  of  no  use  your  blu  'tering  and  threatening  ;  if  you 
should  feel  inclined  that  way,  my  dear  baronet,  it  will  do  no 
good.  I  won't  go.  lUit  you  are  too  much  a  soldier  and  a 
gentlema'""  to  even  try  to  bully  a  poor  little  woman  like  me.  I 
have  an  object  in  view  in  coming  to  Scarswood ;  when  that 
object  is  attained,  I  shall  leave — not  one  instant  before." 

"And  your  object  is — ?  " 

"  A  secret  at  present,  Sir  John.  As  for  your  daughter," — 
with  sneering  emphasis — "  /should  be  the  best  judge,  I  think, 
as  to  whether  or  no  I  am  a  fit  associate  for  her.  Miss  Danger- 
field  appears  to  be  a  young  lady  in  every  way  qualified  to  take 
care  of  herself  And  now,  dear  Sir  John,  as  we  thoroughly 
understand  each  other,  suppose  we^take  breakfast.  It  is  past 
ten,  and  I  am  hungry." 

"  I  never  breakfast  without  Kathcrine,"  the  baronet  answered, 
coldly.  "Mrs.  Harman!" — abruptly — "they  say  every  man 
has  his  price — will  you  name  yours,  and  leave  Scarswood 
forever  ?  " 

"  Now  what  an  indelicate  way  of  putting  it — my  price  ! " 
She  laughed.  "Well,  yes,  Sir  John,  1  don't  mind  owning  as 
miich.  [  have  a  price.  Do  you  know  what  I  said  to  myself 
last  night  when  I  first  entered  Scarswood  ?  I  said  '  I  wonder 
if  Sir  John  would  marry  me  if  I  asked  him  ? '  Ar  1  Sir  John,  I 
wonder  if  you  would  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Harman,"  the  Indian  officer  answered,  with  a  look 
of  disgust  and  contempt,  "let  us  keep  to  tl"  j  subject  in 
hand,  if  you  please.  I  am  in  no  humor  for  witticisms  this 
mornino:." 

"  Which,  translated,  means,  I  suppose,  you  would  not  marry 
me.  It's  not  leap-year,  I  am  aware,  and  my  proposal  may  be 
a  little  out  of  place.  But  just  think  a  moment.  Sir  John — 
what  if  the  telling  of  your  secret  depended  on  it,  and  I  should 
really  like  to  be  my  lady  ? — what  then  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Harman,  if  you  say  another  word  of  this  kind  I  will 
turn  you  out  of  the  house.  Am  I  to  understand,  then,  it  is  to 
tell  you  have  come  hither?" 

His  voice  broke  a  little,  the  strong,  sinewy  hand  that  lay 
upon  the  broad  window-sill,  clenched.  He  bore  himself 
bravely  before  her,  but  there  was  mortal  fear  and  mortal 
anguish  in  the  old  soldier's  blue  eyes. 

"  For  God's  sake  tell  me  the  trutl  ! "  he  said.     "  What  have 


'!  1 


52 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


you  come  to  do  ?  I  saw  you  in  tlic  conscrvq.tory  last  night 
alone  with  my  nci)hew — do  you  mean  lo  tell  ///'///  V^ 

There  was  an  easy-chair  close  to  the  window  ;  the  widow 
sank  down  in  its  silken  cushions — all  this  time  they  had  been 
standing — and  she  Hung  back  her  little,  dainty,  ringleted  head. 

"As  this  conversation  will  be  prolonged,  no  doubt,  until 
Miss  Dangerfield  ai)i)ears,  we  may  as  well  take  a  seat.  So  you 
saw  me  in  Uie  conservatory  last  night  with  your  nephew!  I 
did  not  know  you  did  me  the  honor  to  watch  me.  Sir  John. 
Well,  yes,  I  was  in  the  conservatory  last  night  with  Mr.  Peter 
Dangerfield." 

"  And  you  told  him  all  ?" 

"  1  told  him — nothing  I  My  dear  old  baronet,  what  an  im- 
becile you  must  think  me.  Why  should  I  tell  him  ? — a  poor 
little  pettifogging  attorney.  I  only  drew  him  out  there — read 
him,  you  know — and  he  is  very  large  print,  indeed.  Woe  to 
the  man  or  woman  that  stands  in  his  path  to  fortune  ! — better 
for  them  they  had  never  been  born.  He  never  felt  a  touch  of 
pity  or  mercy  in  his  life  for  any  living  thing,  and  never  will." 

"  I  know  it !  "  the  baronet  said  with  a  groan.  *'  1  know  it  too 
well.  My  life  has  been  a  life  of  terror  since  this  inheriuuice 
fell  to  me — fearing  him,  fearing  j'^//.  If  he  had  been  any  other 
kind  of  a  man  than  the  kind  he  is,  I — think — I  know  I  would 
have  braved  all  consequences  and  told  him  the  truth,  and 
thrown  myself  upon  his  generosity.  My  life  has  bcjn  one  pro- 
longed misery  since  we  came  to  Scarswood.  1  knew  if  you 
were  alive,  you  would  hunt  me  down  as  you  have.  It  would 
be  better  for  me  I  were  a  beggar  on  the  streets." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  listened  to  this  passionate  tirade  with  airiest 
indifference. 

"Then  go  and  be  a  beggar  on  the  streets,"  she  responded  ; 
"  nothing  is  easier.  Throw  yourself  upon  your  nephew's 
generosity — tell  him  that  little  episode  in  both  our  lives  that 
hajjpened  in  the  Paris  hospital  fifteen  years  ago — tell  him,  and 
see  hov\'  generous,  how  magnanimous  he  can  be.  You  saw  me 
talking  to  him,  you  say,  in  the  conservatory  last  night.  Would 
you  like  to  know  what  we  were  talking  about?  Well — of 
Katheme ! " 

He  stood  and  looked  down  at  the  small  mocking  face,  arid 
the  derisive  black  eyes,  gnawing  the  ends  of  his  gray  iuistache, 

"  Of  Katherinr^,"  Mrs.  "^''avasor  said.  "  Mc  told  ine  he  re- 
nieiLibered.  her  an  infant  h  ert  — in  this  very  house,  that  she  was 
two  years  old  when  shs.    ■:k.  England  with  papa  and  mamma. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST*. 


53 


with  airiest 


I  asked  him  if  lie  recalled  her  looks  fifteen  years  ago,  but 
naturally  he  did  not." 

Mrs.  V^avMsor  laughed  at  some  inward  joke. 

*'  Do  you  know,  Sir  John,  he  is  in  love  with  the  heiress  of 
Scarswood,  and  would  marry  her  if  she  would  let  him  ?  He 
[)roi)osed  last  night — " 

"  What !  "  the  baronet  cried  eagerly  ;  "  he  asked  Katherine 
to  marry  him  ?     And  she — what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Called  him  a  rickety  dwarf— truthful,  but  unpleasant — and 
said  tio  as  your  high-spirited  daughter  knows  how  to  say  it. 
lie's  not  handsome,  and  Miss  l^angei field  dearly  loves  beauty. 
She  resembles  her  mother  in  many  thiiv's— -in  that  among  the 
rest.  She  refused  Mr.  Dangerlield  last  night — still  I  think,  my 
dear  baronet,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  congratulating  you 
upon  the  accession  of  a  son-in-law." 

"  \Vhat  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me  ;  our  haughty  little  Katherine  might  not  thank 
me  for  meddling  with  her  affaires  du  co'iir.  And  I  wish  so  much 
to  stand  well  with  the  dear  child.  So  affectionate  a  daughter 
can  have  no  secrets  from  you — sh(.'  will  tell  you  all  about  it  her- 
self, no  doubt,  before  the  day  ends.  And,  Sir  John,  I  can  safely 
promise  you  this  much — I  shall  leave  Scarswood  before  your 
daughter's  wedding  day,  to  return  no  more." 

He  looked  at  her  in  painful,  anxious  silence.  He  felt  that 
behind  her  words  a  covert  threat  lay. 

"  liefore  her  wedding  day.  The  child  is  but  seventeen  and 
not  likely  to  marry  for  four  or  five  years  yet.  1  don't  know 
what  you  mean,  Harriet.  For  pity  sake  speak  plainly — let  us 
understand  each  other  if  we  can.  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  upon 
you.  Heaven  knows.  1  would  pour  out  money  like  water  to 
secure  my  darling's  happiness — and  you — oh  surely  I  of  all  the 
creatures  on  earth,  you  should  be  the  last  to  harm  her.  Don't 
betray  me — don't  betray  her — don't  ruin  her  life.  I  know  I 
ought  to  tell ;  honor,  truth,  with  all  the  instincts  of  my  life, 
urge  me  to  speak,  but  I  know  so  well  what  the  result  would  be, 
and  1  dare  not  ! "  A  stilled  sob  shook  the  old  soldier's  voice. 
"  1  love  her  better  than  ever  father  loved  a  child  before— bet- 
ter I  think  than  ever,  if  that  were  possible,  since  this  new  dan- 
ger threatened.  If  you  keep  silence  there  is  nothing  to  fear. 
in  Heaven's  name,  Harriet,  mention  any  sum  you  like,  however 
exorbitant,  and  leave  this  house  at  once  and  forever." 

She  sat  and  listened,  without  one  touch  of  ])ity  for  the  love 
she  could  not  fathom  ;  she  sat  and  watched  him  without  one 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST, 


softening  glance  of  the  hard  eyes.  There  was  an  unpleasant 
tightness  about  the  thin  lips,  an  almost  diabolical  midice  in  her 
furtive  gaze. 

"  I  will  take  ten  thousand  ]iounds,  and  I  will  leave  Scars- 
wood  a  week  preceding  Miss  Dangerlicld's  wedding  day.  The 
sooner  that  day  is  named  the  better.     That  is  my  ultiniatuiny 

"A  week  before  her  wedding  day !  Why  do  you  harp  on 
that?  I  tell  you  she  has  no  idea  of  being  married  for  years — 
a  child  of  seventeen  !  " 

"  And  I  tell  you  she  has.  Children  of  seventeen  in  this  year 
of  grace  have  very  grown-up  notions.  Miss  Dangerfield  had 
two  proposals  of  marriage  last  night ;  one  she  refused,  one  she 
accepted.  If  you  have  patience,  your  future  son-in-law  will  be 
here  for  his  answer  before  dinner.  As  Katherine  will  be  on  his 
side,  your  answer  will  be,  *  Yes,'  of  course,  though  he  were  tlie 
veriest  blackguard  in  England.  If  that  tall  slip  of  a  giil  told 
you  to  swear  black  was  white,  you  would  swear  it,  and  half  be- 
lieve you  were  not  perjuring  yourself.  You  are  too  old  to  learn 
wisdom  now,  my  poor  Sir  John ;  but  if  you  were  a  younger 
man,  I  would  try  and  convince  you  of  the  folly  of  loving,  with 
such  blind,  dog-like  devotion,  any  creature  on  this  earth.  No 
one  alive  is  worthy  of  it — least  of  all  a  woman.  You  would 
die  to  make  her  hajipy ;  more,  the  soul  of  honor,  by  trauiing 
and  instinct,  you  are  yet  ready  to  commit  dis\\o\\ox  for  her 
sake.  And  she — if  you  stand  between  her  and  this  good-look- 
adventurer,  only  seen  for  the  first  time  a  few  weeks  ago,  she 
will  set  you  down  for  a  very  tyrant  and  monster,  and  run  away 
to  Scotland  with  him  the  instant  he  asks  her.  Oh,  yes  she  will  ! 
I'm  a  woman,  and  I  know  my  sex.  They're  like  cats — stroke 
them  the  right  way  and  they'll  ])urr  forever  ;  stroke  them  the 
wrong  way,  and  their  sharp  claws  are  into  your  llesh,  though 
yours  the  hand  that  has  fed  and  caressed  them  all  their  life. 
Katherine  is  no  worse  than  the  rest,  and  when  she  leaves  you 
and  runs  away  with  /«";;/,  she  is  only  true  lO  her  feline  nature. 
I  will  take  ten  thousand  pounds,  cash  down,  one  week  before 
the  day  fixed  for  Kathie's  wedding,  and  I'll  leave  Scarswood, 
and  you,  and  her,  forever — with  the  secret  untold.  The  sooner 
that  wedding  day  is  fixed,  the  sooner  you  are  rid  of  me.  And 
I'll  never  come  back-  I'll  never  ask  you  for  another  stiver. 
Now  we  understand  each  other,  and  we'll  get  along  comfortably, 
1  hoi)e.  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more  on  this  subject,  it  isn't  a 
pleasant  one ;  and,  Sir  John,  do,  do  try  and  look  a  little  lesa 
like  a  martyr  on  the  rack  I     Don't  wear  your  heart  Oii  your 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


55 


sleeve,  for  the  daws  of  society  to  peck  at.  You  know  that  tire- 
some story  of  the  Spartan  boy  and  the  fox,  or  wolf — which  was' 
it  ?  The  animal  gnawed  at  his  vitals,  but  he  kept  his  cloak  well 
over  it  and  bore  the  agony  with  a  smiling  face.  I  think  the 
horrible  little  brute  lays  hold  of  all  mankind,  soonv^^r  or  later ; 
only  some  suffer  and  make  no  sign,  and  others  go  through  the 
world  howling  aloud  over  the  pain,  /have  hid  my  wolf  for  the 
last  nineteen  years — you  would  not  think  it,  would  you  ? 
Don't  let  everybody  see  you  have  a  secret,  in  your  face,  or 
they  may  find  it  out  for  themselves,  if  you  do.  Here  comes 
our  little  truant  at  last :  and  Dieu  merci,  for  I  am  absolutely- 
famished  !  " 

Clearing  the  last  three  steps  with  a  jump,  according  to  cus- 
tom, all  fluttering  in  crisp  white  muslin,  and  lit  up  with  bright 
ribbons,  Katherine  came  into  the  room,  her  hai)py  face  sun- 
shiny enough  to  illuminate  all  Sussex. 

"  Late  again,  papa,"  throwing  her  arms  round  him  after  her 
impetuous  fashion  and  giving  him  a  soutjding  kiss  ;  "  but  last 
night  was  an  excei)tional  occasion  in  one's  life  ;  one  was  priv- 
ileged to  oversleep  one's  self  this  morning.  Oh,  papa  !  "  with 
a  little  flattering  sigh,  "  what  a  perfectly  delicious  party  it  was  I " 

"My  dear,"  her  father  said,  in  a  constrained  sort  of  voice, 
"  don't  you  see  Mrs.  Vavasor  ?  " 

She  had  not  until  that  moment.  In  her  own  happiness  she 
had  forgotten  the  very  existence  of  her  father's  guest.  Her 
face  clouded  ever  so  slightly  now  as  she  turned  to  meet  the 
little  woman's  gushing  greeting. 

"  Dearest  Katherine — oh,  I  really  must  call  you  Katherine 
— how  well,  how  bright  you  are  looking  this  morning.  Look 
at  that  radiant  face.  Sir  John,  and  tell  me  would  you  think  this 
child  had  danced  twenty-four  consecutive  times  last  night  ?  J 
counted,  my  pet,"  with  her  tinkling  laugh—"  danced  until  broad 
day  this  morning.  Ah  how  delightful  to  be  sweet  seventeen 
and  able  to  look  like  this  after  a  long  night's  steady  waltzing." 

She  would  have  kissed  her,  but  Katherine's  crystal  clear  eyes 
detected  the  rouge  on  her  lips,  and  Katherine,  who  never  re- 
sisted an  impulse  in  her  whole  life,  shrank  back  palpably. 

"  What !  "  Mrs.  Vavasor  exclaimed  gayly  ;  "  you  won't  kiss  me, 
you  proud  little  English  girl  ?  Never  mind,  I  foresee  we  shall 
be  great  friends— don't  you  think  so.  Sir  John  ?  if  only  for  her 
mother's  sake." 

"My  mother's  sake  1"  Katherine  repeated.  "You  knew 
my  mother  ?  " 


jg  ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE. 

,  "  Very  well,  indeed,  my  dear — I  was  her  most  intimate 
friend.  And  you  are  like  her — like  her  every  way — in  face,  in 
manner,  in  voice.  I  should  have  been  fond  of  you  in  any  case, 
but  since  you  resemble  your  mother  so  strongly,  think  how  1 
must  love  you  now  ! " 


CHAPTER  VI. 


!  n 


ASKING   IN   MARRIAGE. 

RS.  VAVASOR  might  be  never  so  vivacious,  but  it 
was  a  very  silent,  not  to  say  gloomy,  meal.  Sir  John 
sat  moodily,  eating  little,  and  watching  his  daughter 
with  strange  new  interest  in  his  eyes.  His  perplexi- 
ties seemed  thickening  around  him.  It  was  surely  bad  enough  to 
have  this  obnoxious  visitor  on  his  hands,  without  an  objection- 
able son-in-law  flung  in  his  face  willy-nilly  also.  Who  could 
the  man  be  ?  He  had  not,  if  3^ou  will  believe  it,  the  reujotest 
idea.  He  had  been  so  completely  absorbed  by  his  esi)ionage 
over  the  little  widow  all  night  that  he  had  scarcely  once  re- 
marked his  daughter.  Who  can  the  man  be  ?  He  thought 
over  the  list  of  his  unmarried  masculine  guests  and  lit  upon  Cap- 
tain De  Vere,  of  the  Plungers,  as  the  man. 

"  And  if  it  be  he,"  the  baronet  thought  with  an  inward  groan, 
*'  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  before 
the  wedding.  And  how  will  it  be  then  ?  He  is  a  very  heavy 
swell,  De  Vere,  and  will  one  day  write  his  name  high  in  the 
peerage.  He  may  be  in  love  with  Katherine  now — how  will  it 
be  when  he  knows  the  truth  ?  Heaven  help  me  I  was  ever 
man  so  badgered  as  I  am  ?  " 

Katherine  was  very  silent,  too  ;  even  her  hearty  girl's  morn- 
ing appetite  seemed  to  have  failed  her.  She  trifled  with  what 
lay  on  her  plate,  a  tender  half-smile  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes. 
Love  had  taken  away  a[)petite.  How  handsome  he  had 
Hooked  !  the  mellow  lamp-light  of  the  conservatory  streaming 
across  his  dark,  southern  beauty.  How  nobly  he  had  spoken  ! 
And  he  had  feared  refusal — this  darling  of  the  gods  !  He  had 
tliought  himself  unworthy  the  heiress  of  Scarswood — he  who 
was  woi  thy  the  heiress  of  a  throne  1 


AC  KING  IN  MARRIAGE. 


57 


"  I  am  glad  I  am  an  heiress  for  his  sake,"  she  thought :  "  I 
only  wish  my  thousands  were  millions!  Oh,  Gaston  !  to  think 
that  your  poverty  would  be  any  obstacle  to  me.  1  am  glad  you 
are  poor — yes,  glad,  that  I  may  give  you  all ;  that  I  may  be  in 
every  way  the  good  angel  of  yo'r  life  !" 

Mrs.  Vavasor,  chattering  cheerily  on  all  imaginable  subjects, 
asked  her  a  question.  It  had  to  be  repeated  ere  it  reached  her 
ear,  dulled  by  her  blissful  trance.     She  lifted  her  dreamy  eyes. 

"  What  did  you  say,  madame  ?" 

Mrs.  Vavasor's  rather  shrill  laugh  chimed  forth. 

*'  What  did  I  say,  madame  !  and  1  have  asked  her  three  times. 
No,  my  dear,  I'll  not  repeat  my  question  as  to  whetljer  you'll 
drive  me  to  Castleford  if  it  clears  up,  as  I  see  it  is  going  to  do, 
being  quite  certain  you  will  have  other  and  pleasanter  com- 
pany. Look  at  that  abstracted  face,  Sir  John,  and  tell  me 
what  you  think." 

The  baronet's  answer  was  a  sort  of  growl,  as  he  rose  abruptly 
from  the  table. 

"  I  am  going  to  my  study,  Katherine,  and  I  want  to  speak  to 
you — will  you  come  ?  " 

"  Speak  to  me,  papa  ?  "  Katherine  repeated,  faintly,  her  color 
coming  and  going  nervously  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

"Yes."  He  offered  her  his  arm,  looking  grimmer  than 
she  had  ever  seen  him  in  all  her  experience.  "  Mrs.  Vavasor 
will  find  some  other  means  of  amusing  herself  besides  that  drive 
to  Castleford.  My  carriage  and  coachman  arc  at  her  service 
if  she  really  desires  it." 

"  Very  well,  papa,"  Miss  Dangerfield  responded,  with  a  meek- 
ness very  different  from  her  usual  manner  of  frank  impertinence 
which  sat  so  well  upon  her.  "  Could  he  know  ?  "  slie  was  think- 
ing in  some  trepidation.  "  Can  he  know  so  soon  ?  Did  he  see 
us  last  night  in  the  conservatory  together  ?  and,  oh  !  what  will 
he  say?  ' 

Mrs.  Vavasor  watched  the  stalwart,  soldierly  figure,  and  the 
slight  girlish  form  on  his  arm  from  sight,  with  a  hard,  cold  glit- 
ter in  her  black  eyes. 

"Your  coachman  is  at  my  service.  Sir  John,  but  your  daugh- 
ter is  not.  And  her  Royal  Highness,  the  Princess  of  Scars- 
wood,  would  not  let  me  kijjs  her  this  morning  1  Lik'?  her  mother 
again,  very  nuich  like  her  mother  indeed.  And  I  have  a  good 
memory  for  all  slights,  little  and  great." 

Sir  John's  study  was  a  cosey  room,  on  the  same  floor  with  the 
breakfast  parlor,  and  commanding  a  view  of  the  entrance  av«- 
8* 


II 


H 


58 


ASKING   IN  MARRIAGE. 


Nothing  was  further  from 


nue  with  its  arching  ehiis.  lie  placed  a  chair  for  his  daughtei, 
still  in  grim  silence,  and  Katherine  sank  into  it  in  a  little  flut- 
ter of  apprehension.  Fear  was  a  weakness  that  perhaps  had 
never  troubled  tlie  girl  in  her  life.  Whatever  the  blood  in  her 
veins,  it  was  at  least  thoroughly  brave.  'And,  womanlike,  it  was 
more  for  her  lover  than  herself  she  trembled  now. 

"Papa  won't  like  it."  she  thought.  "Gaston's  poverty  will 
be  a  drawback  to  him.  He  will  forget  he  was  poor  himself 
only  half  a  year  ago,  and  refuse  his  consent.  No,  he  won't  do 
that ;  he  would  consent  to  anything,  1  think,  sooner  than  see 
mc  miserable." 

"  Katherine,"  her  father  began,  abruptly,  "  Peter  Dangerfield 
pronofjed  la.'^t  night." 

Ka  .herme  looked  up  with  a  start 
her  thoughits  at  that  moment  than  her  cousin  Peter — she  had 
entirely  forgotten  him  and  their  quarrel  of  last  night.    "  Peter  ? 
Oh,  yes,  papa,  I  forgot  all  about  it." 

"Humph!  highly  com])limentary  to  Peter.  I  need  hardly 
ask  if  you  refused  him.  Miss  Dangerfield?" 

"  Certainly  I  refused  him  ! "  Miss  Dangerfield  retorted,  her 
spirits  rising,  now  she  had  found  her  tongue,  "  and  his  declara- 
tion env.  d  in  no  end  of  a  row."  The  heiress  of  Scarswood 
was  a  trif.e  slangy  at  times.  "I  lost  my  temper— that's  the 
truth — at  one  thing  he  said,  and  spoke  to  him  as  1  Imd  no  busi- 
ness to.  I'm  sorry  now,  and  I  apologized,  but  I  know  he'll 
never  forget  or  forgive  the  affront.  Pie's  one  oi  your  nice,  quiet, 
inoffensWe  people  who  go  to  church  three  times  every  Sunday, 
and  who  never  do  forgive  anything." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

Papa's  voice  was  terribly  stern — for  him.  Miss  Dangerfield 
hung  her  head  in  deserved  contrition. 

"  Papa  !  you  know  what  an  abominable  temper  I've  got,  and 
still  more  abominable  tongue — 1  called  him  a  rickety  dwarf" 

"  Katherine ./ " 

"  I'm  sorry,  papa,"  Katherine  repeated  a  little  sullenly,  and 
not  looking  up.  "I  apologized;  it  is  all  I  can  do;  it's  said, 
and  can't  be  recalled  !     Scolding  will  do  no  good  now." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  A  pallor  that  even  her 
wicked  words  seemed  too  trilling  to  call  there  overspread  his 
face. 

"  A  bad  business  !  "  he  muttered.  "  Peter  Dangerfield  will 
never  forget  or  forgive  your  insult  as  long  as  he  lives.  He-iven 
help  you  now,  child,  if  you  are  ever  in  his  power." 


i 


il 


ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE. 


59 


"In  his  power  !  in  Peter's  !"  Katherine  said,  lifting  her  head 
haughtily.  "What  nonsense,  papa  !  of  course  I  shall  never  be 
in  his  power.  And  he  provoked  me  into  saying  it,  if  it  comes 
to  that !  What  business  'had  he  to  speak  as  he  did,  to  in- 
sult— "  Miss  Dangerfield  pulled  herself  up  with  a  jerk,  and 
looked  up. 

"  Insult  whom,  my  daughter  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  papa — a  friend  oi  mine." 

"  And  a  rival  of  his.     Was  it  Captain  De  Vere,  Kathie  ?  " 

"  Captain  De  Vere  !  Oh  dear,  no,  papa !  Captain  De  Vere 
can  fight  his  own  battles — he's  big  enough  and  old  enough. 
He  has  nothing  to  do  with  me." 

"Then  somebody  else  has.  You  are  keeping  something 
from  me,  and  that  is  not  like  you,  Kathie.  You  had  another 
proposal  last  night." 

Katherine  looked  at  her  father  in  sheer  amaze. 

"  Why,  papa,  you  must  be  a  wizard — how  do  you  find  these 
things  out  ?     Did — did  you  see  me  '\\\  the  conservatory  ?  " 

"  /did  not — I  did  not  deem  it  was  necessary  to  place  Kath- 
erine Dangerfield  under  surveillance  at  her  first  party." 

"  Papa ! " 

"  Oh,  child  !  You  compel  me  to  say  cruel  things.  The 
world  will  watch  you  if  I  do  not,  and  report  all  shortcomings." 

"The  world  may,"  Katherine  said,  proudly.  "  I  have  done 
nothing  wrong — I  know  who  has  told  you — you  would  never 
play  the  spy ;  it  was  tliat  odious  woman  in  the  breakfast  room. 
VVho  is  she,  papa,  and  what  does  she  do  here,  and  how  long  is 
she  going  to  stay  ?  I  don't  know  anything  about  her,  but  I 
hate  her  already.     Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  ii5  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Never  mind  her  at  present,  my  dear 
— you  are  the  subject  under  discussion.  We  have  not  come  to 
this  other  lover  yet — let  us  come  to  him  at  once.  Two  lovers  ! 
and  yesterday  I  thought  you  a  child.  Well,  well !  it  is  the  way 
of  the  world — the  female  portion  of  it  at  least.  Katherine,  who 
is  the  man?  " 

She  looked  up — grew  very  pale — met  her  father's  stern,  sor- 
rowful eyes,  and  looked  down. 

"  It  is: — papa,  papa  !  don't  be  angry.  He  can't  help  being 
poor — and  I — I  like  him — so,"  with  little  gasps.  "  O'-,  ^.j-pa, 
please  !  You  never  were  cruel  to  your  little  Kathie  in  all  your 
life — please  dotft  begin  now  ! " 

He  stood  very  still,  listening  to  this  outburst  with  a  face  that 
grew  every  moment  graver. 


6o 


ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE. 


&i 


\    \ 


"And  it  needs  such  a  preface  as  this  !  You  have  to  plead 
for  him  before  even  you  tell  his  name.     Who  is  he,  Kathie  ?  " 

She  got  up,  flung  her  arms  round  him,  and  hid  her  lace  on 
his  shoi.ilder. 

•'  It  is — papa,  p-p-please  don't  be  angry.     It  is  Gaston  Dan**^ 
tree  !  " 

The  nun-der  was  out !  Of  all  the  men  he  had  thought  of,  he 
had  never  once  thought  of  him.  Gaston  Dantree  I  An  utter 
stranger — a  singer  of  songs — his  voir-j  giving  him  the  entree 
into  iiouses  where  else  he  had  never  set  his  foot.  A  sclienier 
probably-^an  adventurer  certainly — a  foreigner  also — and  Sir 
John  Dangerfield  had  all  your  true-born  Briton's  hearty  detes- 
tation of  foreigners. 

"  Kathie,"  he  could  just  exclaim  ;  *'  that  man  !  " 

"  1  love  him,  papa ! "  she  \^hispered,  between  an  impulsive 
sluj'.Vv.r  of  coaxing  kisses  ;  "  and  oh,  please  don't  call  him  that 
man  !  He  may  be  poor  ;  but  he  is  so  good,  so  noble — dearer, 
better  every  way  than  any  man  I  ever  knew.  If  you  had  only 
heard  him  talk  last  night,  papa  !  " 

"  Talk  !  Yes,  1  dare  say."  The  baronet  laughed — a  dreary- 
sounding  laugh  enough.  "  It  is  his  stock  in  trade — that  silvery 
tenor  of  his  ;  and  all  adventurers  possess  the  gift  of  gab.  It  is 
the  rubbish  that  keeps  them  afloat." 

"  An  adventurer,  papa  !  You  have  no  right  to  call  him  that. 
You  don't  know  him — you  should  not  judge  him.  He  may  be 
poor  ;  but  poverty  is  his  only  disgrace.  He  does  not  deserve 
that  oi)probrious  name  !  " 

"It  would  be  difllcult,  indeed,  to  say  what  name  Mr.  Gaston 
Dantree  does  not  deserve.  A  penniless  stranger  who  could 
deliberately  set  himself  to  work  to  steal  the  affections  of  a  child 
like  you — for  your  fortune  alone  !  That  will  do,  Katherine  :  I 
know  Avhat  I  am  talking  about — I  have  met  men  like  Mr.  Gas- 
ton Dantree  before.  And  1  have  no  right  to  judge  him — this 
thief  who  comes  to  steal  away  my  treasure  I  Child — child  ! 
you  have  disappointed  me — you  have  disappointed  me  more 
than  1  can  say." 

He  sighed  bitterly,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand; 
Katherine's  arm  tightened  imploringly  round  his  neck. 

"  But  not  angered  you,  papa,  not  grieved  you  ;  don't  say  I 
have  done  that  !  "  She  cried  faintly,  hiding  her  face.  "  Dear- 
est, best  father  that  ever  was  in  this  wo' id,  don't  say  you  are 
angry  with  Kath-^rine — for  the  first,  the  •)nly  time  !" 

"  Heave",  knows,  my  dear,  I  could  not  be  angry  with  you  if 


ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE. 


61 


I  tried.  Lift  up  your  head,  Kathie,  and  give  me  a  kiss.  Don't 
cry  for  your  new  toy,  niy  child  ;  you  shall  have  it,  as  you  have 
had  all  the  rest.  Only  whatever  happens  in  the  future,  don't 
blame  me.  Remember  that  I  have  nothing  but  your  happiness 
at  heart." 

Her  impetuous  kisses,  her  happy  tears  thanked  him.  Since 
her  childhood  he  had  not  seen  her  weep  before,  and  the  sight 
moved  him  strangely. 

"  And  Avhcn  am  I  to  see  him,  Kathcrine?"  he  asked;  "when 
is  this  unknown  hero,  without  money  in  his  purse,  coming  to 
claim  the  heiress  of  Scarswood?  It  requires  some  courage, 
doubtless,  to  face  the  *  heavy  father ; '  but  I  suppose  he  does 
intend  to  come.  And  I  think  your  Mr.  Dantree  has  courage 
— no,  .that's  not  the  word — cheek  •enough  for  anything." 

*'  lie  will  be  here  to-day,"  she  whispered,  lifting  her  head ; 
"and  pa])a,  for  my  sake  don't  be  hard  on  him — don't  hurt  his 
feelings,  don't  insult  him  for  his  poverty  !" 

He  put  her  from  him,  and  walked  away  with  a  gesture  al- 
niost  of  anger. 

"  riis  poverty  !  as  if  I  cared  for  that  t  The  baronets  of  Scars- 
wood  have  been  poor  men,  often  enough  ;  but  they  were  always 
gentlemen.  I  don't  think  your  handsome  lover  with  the  tenor 
voice  can  say  as  much.  But,  whatever  he  is — blackleg,  advent- 
urer, fortune  hunter — I  am  to  take  him,  it  seems,  to  give  him 
my  daughter,  and  heiress,  as  soon  as  it  jjleaseshis  sultanship  to 
claim  her.  If  not,  you'll  become  a  heroine,  won't  you,  Kathie, 
and  run  away  to  Gretna  Green  with  him  ?  Katherine,  if  by 
some  freak  of  fortune  Scarswood  and  its  long  rent-roll  passed 
from  you  to-morrow,  and  you  stood  before  him  penniless  as  he 
is,  how  long  do  you  think  he  would  prove  true  to  all  the  love- 
vows  of  last  night — in  the  conservatory,  was  it  ?  " 

"  For  all  the  years  of  his  life,  papa,"  the  girl  cried,  her  large 
eyes  Hashing.  "You  don't  know  him — you  judge  him  cruelly 
and  unkindly.  He  loves  me  for  myself — as  I  do  him.  Papa, 
I  never  knew  you  to  be  so  unkind  before  in  all  my  life." 

"That  will  do,  Kathie — I  have  promised  to  accept  him  when 
he  comes — let  that  suffice.  I  confess  I  should  have  liked  a 
gentleman  born  and  bred  for  a  son-in-law,  but  that  weakness 
will  no  doubt  wear  away  with  time.  Ah,  I  see — '  lo  !  the  con- 
quering hero  comes  ! '  Will  yo;;  drre  trust  him  to  my  tender 
mercies,  my  dear,  or  do  you  v/ish  to  remain  and  do  battle  for 
your  knight?" 

lor  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  was  riding  slowly  up  the  avenue. 


62 


ASKING  IN  MARK  I  ACE, 


n 


♦ 


The  sun  which  all  morning  had  been  struggling' with  the  clouds 
burst  out  at  the  moment,  and  Mr.  Dantree  approached 
through  the  sunburst  as  through  a  glory.  The  girl's  eyes  lit, 
her  whole  face  kindled  with  the  radiance  of  love  at  seventeen. 
And  this  son  of  the  gods  was  hers.  She  turned  in  her  swift, 
impulsive  fashion,  and  flung  her  arms  round  her  father's  neck 
once  more. 

"  Don't  be  unkind,  papa,  for  my  sake.  It  would  kill  me  if 
I  lost  him — just  that." 

"  Kill  you,"  he  laughed,  cynically.  "  Men  have  died,  and 
worms  have  eaten  them,  but  nut  for  love.  There,  go — I  may 
be  an  ogre,  but  I'll  promise  not  to  devour  Mr.  Dantree  this 
morning,  if  I  can  help  it." 

He  led  her  to  the  door,  held  it  open  for  her  to  pass  out. 
She  gave  him  one  last  imploring  glance. 

"  For  my  sake,  papa,"  she  repeated,  and  fled. 

He  closed  the  door  and  went  back  to  his  seat  beside  the 
window.  The  last  trace  of  softness  died  out  of  his  face,  he 
sighed  heavily,  and  in  the  garish  sunshine  his  florid  face  looked 
haggard  and  worn. 

"  If  I  only  had  courage  to  face  the  worst,"  he  thought — "  if 
I  only  Jiad  cou=uge  to  tell  the  truth.  But  I  am  a  coward,  and  I 
cannot.  The  revelation  would  kill  her — to  lose  lover,  fortune, 
all  at  one  blow.  If  it  must  fall,  mine  will  never  be  the  hand  to 
strike,  and  yet  it  might  be  greatest  mercy  after  all." 

The  door  was  tlung  wide. 

"  Mr.  Dantree,"  announced  the  footman. 

Sir  John  arose  with  a  stern  ceremoniousnoss  that  might  have 
abashed  most  men.  But  it  did  not  abash  Katherine's  lover. 
In  the  whole  course  of  his  checkered  career  no  man  had  ever 
seen  Mr.  Dantree  put  out  of  countenance.  He  came  forward, 
hat  in  hand,  that  handsome  mask,  his  face,  wearing  a  polite 
smile. 

''  Good-morning,  Sir  John — I  hope  I  see  you  well  after  last 
night's  late  hours.  It  was  a  most  delightful  reuT^ion,  And 
Miss  Katherine,  I  trust,  is  well  also  after  the  fatigue  of  so  much 
dancing  ?  " 

"  My  daughter  is  well !" — very  stiff  and  frigid,  this  response. 
"  Will  you  take  a  seat,  Mr.  Dantree,  and  tell  me  to  what  I  owe 
the  honor  of  this  visit  ?  " 

He  jiaused.  The  tone,  the  look,  were  enough  to  chill  the 
ardor  of  the  warmest  lover.  Mr.  Dantree  took  them,  and  the 
chair,  as  matters  of  course.     He  laid  his  hat  on   the  floor, 


ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE. 


63 


clouds 
oached 
yes  lit, 
enteen. 
r  swift, 
r's  neck 

ill  me  if 

d,  and 
-1  may 
ree  this 

•ass  out. 


side  the 
face,  he 
:  looked 


ht— "  if 
d,  and  I 
fortune, 
hand  to 


ght  have 
;'s  lover, 
had  ever 
forward, 
a  polite 

after  last 

n.     And 

so  much 

esponse. 
at  I  owe 

chill  the 

and  the 

he  floor, 


drew  off  his  gloves,  ran  his  fingers  through  his  glossy  black 
curls,  and  met  Sir  John's  irate  gaze  with  unllinching  good 
humor. 

"  I  come  to  you,  Sir  John,  on  a  matter  of  supreme  im- 
portance. As  you  appear  in  haste,  I  will  not  detain  you  long 
—1  will  come  to  the  point  at  once.  Last  night  I  had  the 
honor  of  proposing  for  your  daughter's  hand,  and  the  happiness 
of  being  accepted." 

This  was  coming  to  the  point  at  once  with  a  vengeance. 
Sir  John  sat  gazing  at  him  blankly.  The  stupendous  magnifi- 
cence of  his  cheekiness  completely  took  his  breath  away. 

"It  may  be  presumptuous  on  my  part,"  Mr.  Dantree 
coolly  went  on  ;  "but  our  affections  are  not  under  our  control. 
Love  knows  no  distinction  of  rank.  I  love  your  daughter. 
Sir  John,  and  have  the  great  happiness  of  knowing  my  love  is 
returned." 

Sir  John  Dangerfield  actually  burst  out  laughing.  Some- 
where in  the  old  mustache  there  lay  a  lurking  vein  of  humor, 
and  Mr.  Dantree's  perfect  sang-froid  and  pat  little  speech 
tickled  it;  and  the  laugh  took  Air.  Dantree  more  aback  than 
any  words  in  the  English  language. 

"  Sir  !  "  he  began,  reddening. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Dantree — I  certainly  had  no  inten- 
tion of  laughing,  and  I  certainly  suppose  you  don't  see  any- 
thing to  laugh  at.  It  was  that  pretty  speech  of  yours — how 
glibly  you  say  your  lesson  !  Long  practice,  now,  I  .suppose 
has  made  you  perfect." 

"  Sir  John  Dangerfield — if  you  mean  to  insult  me — " 
"Keep  quiet,  Mr.  Dantree — you're  not  in  a  passion, 
though  you  feign  one  very  well.  You  may  be  an  actor  by 
profession,  for  what  I  know,  but  I'd  rather  we  dropped 
melodrama  and  kept  to  humdrum  common-sense.  Reserve 
all  you  flowery  periods  about  love  overleaping  the  barriers 
of  rank — Katherine  is  not  listening.  Am  I  to  understand  you 
are  here  to  demand  my  daughter's  hand  in  marriage  ?  " 

Mr.  Dantree  bowed. 

"  You  are  to-  understand  that.  Sir  John.  I  possess  Miss 
Dangerfield's  heart.  I  have  come  here  this  morning,  with  her 
consent,  to  ask  you  for  her  hand." 

"  And  my  daughter  has  known  you — three,  or  four  weeks — 
which  is  it  ?  And  you  are  good  enough  to  acknowledge  it 
may  be  a  little  presumptuous  !  Mr.  Dantree,  what  are  you  ? 
Katherine  is  seventeen,  and  in  love  with  you  ;  I  am  si.xty-five, 


[I 


I, 


I] 

:  f 

1 1 


54  ASKING  IN  MARK /AGE. 

and  not  in  love  ;  yon  possess  a  han'lsomc  face  and  a  very  fine 
voice — may  I  ask  what  additional  virtues  and  claims  you  can 
put  forth  for  my  fiivor  ?  Dark  eyes  and  melodious  tenors  are 
very  good  and  pleasant  things  in  their  way,  but  1  am  an  un- 
romantic  old  soldier,  and  1  should  like  you  to  show  some  more 
substantial  reasons  why  I  am  to  give  you  my  daughter  for  life." 

"If  by  substantial  reasons  you  mean  fame  or  forlime, "Sir 
John,  I  possess  neither.  I  own  it — I  am  poor.  I  am  a 
journalist,  lly  my  i)en  I  earn  my  bread,  and  I  have  yet  to 
learn  there  is  any  disgrace  in  honest  poverty." 

"'I'here  are  many  things  you  have  yet  to  learn,  I  think,  Mr. 
Dantree,  but  easy  assurance  and  self-conceit  are  not  among 
them.  You  are  poor,  no  doubt — of  the  honesty  of  that  poverty 
I  have  no  means  of  judging.  At  present  I  have  but  your 
word  for  it.  AVould  you  like  to  know  what  1  think  of  you,  Mr. 
Dantree — in  plain  language  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  Sir  John,  and  it  will  be  plain,  I  have  no 
doubt." 

"  Then,  sir,  you  are,  I  believe,  simply  and  solely  an  advent- 
urer— a  fortune-hunter.  Be  good  enough  to  hear  me  out.  I 
am  not  likely  to  /epeat  this  conversation  for  some  time,  and  it 
is  much  better  we  should  understand  each  other  at  once. 
There  is  but  one  thing  I  would  rather  not  see  my  daughter 
than  your  wife,  and  that  is — dead  !  " 

"Thank  you.  Sir  John — you  are  almost  more  com[)limentary 
than  I  had  hoped.  I  am  to  understand,  then,"  he  said  this 
with  perfect  coolness,  "  that  you  refuse  your  consent.  In  that 
case  I  have  only  to  bid  you  good-day  and  go." 

Sir  John  glanced  at  him  in  impotent  rising  wrath.  What  it 
cost  him  to  preserve  even  a  show  cf  self-control  the  fiery  old 
soldier  alone  knew. 

"You  do  well,"  he  cried,  his  blue  eyes  afire,  "to  taunt  me 
with  my  imi)otence.  If  I  were  a  wiser  man  and  a  less 
indulgent  father,  by  heavens  !  you  should  go,  and  that  quickly  ! 
But  1  have  never  refused  Katherine  anything  yet,  and  1  am 
not  going  to  begin  now.  She  has  set  her  foolish,  child's  heart 
on  you,  sir,  with  your  cursed  womanish  beauty  and  Italian 
song-singing,  and  she  shall  not  be  thwarted — by  me.  She  shall 
marry  you  if  she  wishes  it — she  shall  never  say /came  between 
her  and  the  dearest  desire  of  her  heart.  Take  her,  (iaston 
Dantree,"  he  arose,  "and  may  an  old  man's  cur.se  blight  you 
if  ever  you  make.hor  repent  it  !" 

Perhaps   somewhere  in  his  hard  anatomy  Gaston  Dantree 


THE  SECOND    WARNING. 


65 


•ly  fine 
you  ( an 
lors  are 

an  un- 
10  more 
br  life." 
unc, 'Sir 
I  am  a 
;  yet  to 

nk,  Mr. 

among 

\)ovcrty 

lut   your 


you, 


Mr. 


have  no 

1  advent- 
out.     I 

le,  and  it 
at  once, 
daughter 

Hmentary 

said  this 

In  that 

What  it 
:  liery  old 

taunt  me 
lid  a  less 
:  quickly  1 
and  1  am 
Id's  heart 
id  Italian 
She  shall 

2  between 
;r,  (iaston 
)light  you 

1  Dantree 


had  an  organ  that  did  duty  as  a  heart,  it  smote  him  now.  He 
held  out  his  hand  to  the  passionate  old  soldier. 

"So  help  me  Heaven  !  she  never  shall.  As  I  deal  by  hei 
may  1  be  dealt  with  ! " 

He  spoke  the  words  that  sealed  his  condemnation.  In  the 
troubled  after-days,  it  was  only  the  retribution  he  invoked 
then  that  fell. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   SECOND   WARNING. 

EFORE  the  expiration  of  a  week,  it  was  known  to  all 
Castleford — to  all  the  county  families  of  the  neigbor- 
hood — that  Miss  Kathcrine  l-)angerfield,  of  Scarswood 
Park,  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree,  of — nobody 
knew  where. 

Had  any  other  baronet's  daughter  so  far  stooped  to  disgrace 
their  code  and  their  order,  the  county  families  would  have  stood 
paralyzed  at  the  desecration.  Bei?ii^  JVIiss  Dangerfield,  nobody 
even  wondered.  It  was  only  of  a  piece  with  all  the  rest.  What 
could  you  expect  of  a  young  person — the  term  of  lady  would 
have  been  a  misnomer — of  a  young  person  with  some  of  the 
best  blood  in  Sussex  in  her  veins,  who  ])ersisted  in  scampering 
over  the  downs  and  the  coast  for  miles  without  a  groom  ! — 
who  treated  her  venerable  father  as  though  he  were  a  child 
of  twelve,  who  wore  her  hair  streaming  down  her  back  at  the 
mature  age  of  seventeen,  who  called  every  Goody  and  Gaffer 
in  the  parish  by  their  christian  name,  who  was  quite  capa- 
ble of  speaking  to  anybody  without  an  introduction,  who  knew 
every  game  that  could  be  played  on  the  cards,  and  who  talked 
slang  ?  What  could  you  expect  of  a  demoralized  young  woman 
like  this  ?  The  Dangerfield  lineage  was  unexceptionable — 
there  must  be  a  cross  somewhere,  a  bar  sinister  or  die  mother's 
side  ;  it  was  a  wild  impossibility  the  old  blood  could  degenerate 
in  this  way. 

Who  was  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree?  The  county  families  asked 
this  question  with  intense  curiosity  now,  and  found  the  answer 
all  too  meagre.     Mr.  Dantree  himself  responded  to  it  with  that 


1 


i 


ill 

11 


^6 


THE  SECOND    WARNING. 


])cifert,  high-bred  self-possession  which  characterized  him  ;  and 
everybody  had  to  take  his  own  account,  or  go  look  for  proof. 

"  1  am  an  American — aSoulherner,  as  you  know,"  Mr.  Dantree 
had  said  ;  *' my  native  State  is  Louisiana.  1  am  that  famous 
historical  personage,  '  the  son  of  poor  but  honest  parents,' 
now  and  for  many  years  dead.     l>y  profession  1  am  a  journalist ; 

1  am  connected  with  the  N^m*  Orleans  P .    An  unexpected 

V.  indfall,  in  the  way  of  a  small  legacy,  enabled  me,  six  months 
ago,  to  realize  a  long-cherished  dream  of  mine  and  visit  ICngland. 
My  leave  of  absence  ex])ires  in  two  months,  when  1  nuist 
either  rettuMi  to  New  Orleans  or — "  • 

Here  Mr.  Dantree  was  wont  to  break  off  if  Miss  Dangerfield 
were  ])resent,  with  a  profound  .sigh  and  a  glance  that  si)oke 
lexicons. 

Squire  Talbot,  of  Morecambe,  with  whom  Mr,  Dantree  had 
come  down  to  I.tv.nlon,  and  with  whom  he  was  still  staying, 
when  brought  \\\)0\\  the  stand  in  turn  and  cross-examined,  could 
throw  very  little  more  light  on  his  guest's  antecedents. 

"Deuced  sorry,  now,  Sir  John,  1  ever  «'/'// bring  the  fellow 
down,"  young  Mr.  Talbot  said,  the  first  time  he  met  the  bar- 
onet, pulling  his  tawny  nnisfache  v'th  gloomy  ferocity  ;  "  but 
how  the  deuce  could  1  tell  Miss  Dangerfield  would  go  and — no, 
I  mean  Dantree,  be  hatiged  to  him  ! — v.'ould  go  and  make  love 
to  Miss  Dangerfield  ?  1  put  it  to  yourself — now  coidd  I,  Sir 
John  ?  I'm  deuced  sorry,  and  all  that,  but  I  don't  know  a  blessed 
thing  about  him  except  that '  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow,'  as  the  song 
says,  tells  a  capital  story,  sings  like  an  American  Sims  Reeves, 
and  can  ])unish  more  champagne  of  a  night  and  rise  none  the 
worse  for  it  next  day  than  any  other  fellow" — Scpiire  Talbot 
pronoimced  it  "  feller" — "  i  ever  knew.  I  met  him  fir.,t  at  a 
dinner  at  the  Guards'  Club,  then  at  a  Sunday  breakfast  at 
I/Ord  Leaham's — invited  to  both  these  places,  you  understand, 
to  sing.  He  knew  lots  of  newspaper  men — wrote  ilimsies 
himself  for  the  sporting  journals,  and  when  1  asked  him — con- 
found it  I — to  run  down  with  me  to  my  place  in  Sussex,  he 
consented  at  once.  And  1  am  deuced  sorry.  Sir  John,"  reiter- 
ated Squire  Talbot,  going  over  the  same  ground  again  ;  "  and 
1  hope,  whatever  happens,  you  know,  you'll  not  blame  me." 

"  I  blame  nobody,"  the  old  baronet  answered,  wearily  ;  *'  these 
things  are  to  be,  1  suppose.  I  shall  write  to  New  Orleans  and 
make  incjuiries  concerning  the  young  man  ;  I  can  do  no  more. 
Katherine  is  infatuated — pray  Heaven  her  eyes  may  not  be 
opened  in  my  day  ! " 


itn  ;  and 

proof. 

I);uitice 

f;uiiuiis 

piucnts,' 

111  iialist  ; 

jxpt'ctt'd 

moiilhs 

-nglaiul. 

1  must 

ngcrficld 
at  si^oke 

I  tret"  had 

staying, 
L'd,  could 

he  fellow 
the  bar- 

and 
lakc  love 
lid  I,  Sir 
a  blessed 
;  the  song 
i  Reeves, 
none  the 
e  Talbot 
first  at  a 
akfast  at 
de-rstand, 
J  ilinisies 
ini — con- 
isscx,  he 
1,"  reiter- 

II  ;  "  and 
e  nie." 

■ ;  •'  these 
leans  and 
no  more. 
\f  nf;t  be 


"  but 
—no. 


T//E  SECOND    WARNING, 


67 


Mrs.  VaYasor  was  perhaps  the  only  one  wV  «  heard  with  un- 
alloyed satisfaction  of  Katherip.e's  sudden  engagement. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Sir  John?"  she  said,  triumphantly. 
•'What  do  you  think  of  my  i)owers  of  diviiuuion  lunv?  It's 
rather  a  UK'salliance,  isn't  it? — for  her  father's  daughter,  rather 
a  mad  affair  altogether.  Hut,  dear  child — she  is  so  iiiipulsivc, 
and  so  self-reliant,  and  so  hopelessly  obsti — no,  that's  not  a 
pleasant  word— so  resolute  anil  firm,  let  us  say,  that  remon- 
strance is  (^uite  thrown  away  upon  her.  Let  us  pity  her.  Sir 
John,  rather  than  blame  ;  she  comes  by  all  those  admirable 
traits  of  character.honestly  enough  —inherited  from  her  mother. 
And  when  is  the  wedding  to  take  i)lace  ?  " 

She  threw  her  head  back  against  the  purple-velvet  cushions 
of  her  chair,  and  looked  at  the  moody  baronet  with  nj.nliciously 
sparliling  black  eyes. 

"  1  (l,)n't  ask  merely  from  idle  curiosity,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  went 
on.  as  the  badgered  baronet's  answer  was  a  sort  of  groan  ;  "  I 
iiupiire  because  the  knowledge  inlluences  my  own  movements. 
One  week  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  wedding,  I  receive  from 
you,  my  kind  benefactor,  that  check  for  ten  thousand  pouiids — 
a  very  respectable  haul,  by  the  way — and  1  shake  the  dust  of 
Scarswood  off  my  feet  forever.  My  reception  by  both  host  and 
hostess  was,  I  must  say,  of  the  least  cordial,  and  I  am  made  to 
feel  every  hour  that  I  am  a  most  unwelcome  interloper.  Still, 
I  bear  no  malice,  and  not  having  any  of  your  sani^-aziire  in 
my  veins,  my  sensitive  feelings  are  not  wounded.  Perhaps  a 
dozen  years  spent  at  Baden  and  Ilomburg  does  blunt  the  liner 
edge  of  one's  nerves.  L  trust  t'  e  wedding  day  will  not  come 
round  too  speedily — I  really  like  my  quarters  here.  My  room 
commands  a  sunny  southern  prospect,  your  wines  are  unexcep- 
tionable, and  your  cook  for  an  English  cook,  a  treasure.  Don't 
fix  the  hnppy  day  too  near.  Sir  John.  Dearest  Katherine  is  so 
impetuous  that  she  would  be  married  next  week,  I  dare  say, 
if  she  could." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  it  were  next  week,  so  that  I  might  be 
rid  of  you  !  "  Sir  John  broke  out.  "  You  bring  misfortune  with 
you  wherever  you  go !  Mrs.  Ilarman,  you  shall  leave  this 
house  !  You  sit  here  with  that  mocking  smile  on  your  face, 
exulting  in  your  power  until  it  drives  me  half  ruad  to  look  at 
you.  Take  the  enormous  bribe  you  demand — I  have  no  right 
to  give  it  you,  I  know — and  go  at  once.  What  object  can  you 
gain  by  remaining  here?" 

"Now,  that  is  an  unkind  question.     What  do  I  gain  ?     The 


i'ffw 


THE  SECOND    WARNING. 


I    f^ 


pleasure  of  your  society,  and  that  of  Miss  Dangerfiekl,  to  be 
sure  ;  the  jileasure  of  being  hand  and  glove  with  the  gentry  of 
this  ne'ghborliood,  who,  like  yourself,  rather  give  me  the  cold 
shoulder,  by  the  way.  1  wonder  how  it  is  ? — none  of  them 
ever  saw  me  at  Iloniburg  that  1  know  of.  I  suppose  the  brand 
of  adventuress  is  stamped  on  ni)-  face.  No,  Sir  John  ;  not 
one  hour,  not  one  second  sooner  than  I  say,  shall  1  (juit  Scars- 
Avood  Park.  If  the  wedding  is  fixed  for  next  week,  then  1  leave 
this ;  if  for  this  day  ten  years,  then  1  remain  that  long.  I 
dare  say  I  should  fmd  life  slow,  and  the  character  of  a  respect- 
able British  matron  of  tiie  upper  classes  a  dismal  life;  but  still, 
1  would  do  it." 

He  stoi)i)ed  in  his  walk  and  looked  at  her.  1'he  bold  eyes 
met  his  unflinchingly. 

"  Well,  Sir  John  ?  " 

"  Harriet  Harnian,  you  have  some  sinister  design  in  all  this. 
What  have  you  to  do  with  Katharine's  wedding  day?  What 
has  the  child  done  to  you  that  you  should  hate  her?  What 
have  I  ever  done  that  you  should  torment  me  thus?  Is  it  that 
at  the  List  hour  you  mean  to  break  your  [iromise  and  tell? 
Great  Heaven  !     Harriet,  is  that  what  you  mean  ?" 

Her  steady  color  faded  for  a  moment ;  her  own,  with  all  her 
bo'.dness,  shifted  away  from  the  gaze  of  the  old  man's  horror- 
struck  eyes. 

"  What  I  mean  is  my  own  affair,"  she  said,  sullenly ;  "  and 
I  do  hate  Kaiherine  for  her  motiier's  sake,  and  her  own.  You 
needn't  ask  ine  any  (luestions  about  it.  I  n:ean  to  tell  you  all 
one  day — but  not  this.  I  want  mone}'.  Sir  John,  and  that 
promised  check,  of  course,  my  poor  little  purse  rejilenished. 
See  how  empty  it  is  ! — and  all  my  worldly  v^'calth  is  here." 

Siie  laughed  as  she  held  it  up,  all  her  old  audacious  manner 
back.  Two  or  three  shillings  jingled  in  the  meshes  as  she  held 
it  out. 

**  I  want  to  replcm'sh  my  wardrobe ;  I  want  to  pay  some 
bills;  I  want — oh  !  millions  of  things  !  Fill  me  out  a  check  like 
the  princely  old  soldier  you  are,  and  I  shall  get  through  the 
day  shopping  in  Castleford  ;  I  will  amuse  myself  spending 
mone;-,  .vnile  Katherine  amuses  herself  listening  to  Mr.  Dan- 
tree's  ilucnt  love-making.  He's  rather  a  clever  little  fellow, 
that  son-in-law-elect  of  yours,  my  dear  baronet,  and  I  don't 
think  he  has  given  us  his  whole  autobiography  quite  as  it  is 
known  in  New  Orleans.  I  don't  say  there  was  anything  par- 
ticularly clever  in  his  wooing  the  heiress  of  Scarswood,  because 


THE  SECOND    WARNING. 


69 


Id,  to  be 

cjcntry  of 

the  cold 

t)f  tlicin 
the  brand 
")hn  ;  not 
nit  Scars- 
n  I  leave 

)ng.  I 
a  respect- 
but  still, 


3old  eyes 


r»  all  this. 

?     What 

?     What 

Is  it  that 

and  tell  ? 

ith  all  her 
,'s  horror- 

ly ;  **  and 
vn.  You 
ell  you  all 
and  that 
[)lenished. 
ere." 

s  manner 
s  she  held 

pay  some 
:heck  like 
rough  the 
spending 
Mr.  Dan- 
;le  fellow, 
d  I  don't 
te  as  it  is 
thing  par- 
1,  because 


any  well-looking  young  man,  with  a  ready  tongue  and  an  ele- 
gant address,  could  have  done  tJiat,  and  my  own  impression  is 
that  Miss  Dangerlield,  like  Desdcniona,  met  him  liiore  than 
half  way.  I'm  ready  to  wager  the  nu[)tials  will  l)e  consum- 
mated within  the  next  three  months.  Now,  that  check,  dear 
Sir  John — and  do  be  liberal  !" 

She  rose  up,  and  Sir  John,  with  the  look  of  a  hunted  animal 
at  bay,  filled  out  a  check  for  a  hundred  pounds  and  handed  it 
to  her. 

"  A  sop  to  Cerberus,"  the  widow  said,  gayly  ;  "  do  you  know, 
Sir  John,  I  haven't  had  so  much  money  at  once  for  the  past  five 
years !  *  How  fortunate  for  me  that  I  met  Colonel  Dangerfield 
and  lady  that  eventful  day  fifteen  years  ago  in  the  hosi)ital  of 
St.  Lazare  !  And  what  a  comfortable  thing  to  a  i^oor  little 
widow  a  great  man's  secret  is !  Thank  you,  Sir  John  ;  my 
toilettes  will  do  Scarswood  credit  during  the  remainder  of  my 
stay." 

And  Mrs.  Vavasor  kept  her  word.  The  faded  silks  and 
shabby  laces,  the  Palais-Ro}al  diamonds  and  soiled  gloves  were 
consigned  to  the  lowest  deptiis  of  oblivion  and  tlie  widow's 
trunks.  And  silks  of  rainbow  hues,  stiff  enough  in  their  rustling 
richness  to  stand  alone  ;  cobweb  laces  of  marvellous  price, 
with  the  glimmer  of  real  jewels,  made  the  little  woman  gorgeous. 
If  she  painted,  she  was  past  mistress  of  the  art  ;  and  none  but 
a  very  exi)ert  female  eye  could  have  detected  the  lifjuid  rouge 
that  made  her  blooni  so  brightly,  or  that  the  sparkling  radiance 
of  her  bright  black  eyes  was  the  ghastly  brilliance  of  belladonna. 
Sir  John's  one  hundred  poimds  went  a  very  little  way  in  his 
visitor's  magnificent  toilet,  and  that  first  "sop  to  Cerberus"  had 
to  be  very  speedily  and  very  often  renewed.  In  her  own  way, 
she  spent  her  time  very  ])leasantly — tossing  over  puichascs  in 
the  Castleford  shops,  making  rgreeable  Hying  trips  to  London 
and  back,  driving  about  in  a  little  basket-carriage  and  biding 
her  time. 

"  All  things  are  possible  to  the  man  who  knows  how  to  wait, 
my  dear  Mr.  Dangerfield,"  she  said  one  day,  to  the  baronet's 
moody  nejihew.  "1  supi)ose  the  same  rule  api)lics  to  women. 
Don't  be  impatient  ;  your  time  and  mine  is  very  near  now.  I 
have  waited  for  nearly  eighteen  years,  and  here  you  are  grum- 
bling, ingratc,  at  being  obliged  to  stand  in  the  backgroiuul  for 
that  many  weeks  !  How  is  it  that  we  never  see  you  at  Scars- 
wood  now  ?  " 

She  picked  up  the  Castleford  attorney  on  one  of  her  drives. 


■*  i  ■ 


i 


:i 


70 


r/Zi?  SECOND    WARNING. 


Since  the  night  of  the  birthday  party,  Mr.  Peter  Dangerfield 
had  not  shown  his  sallow  Rice,  colorless  eyes  and  mustache 
inside  the  great  house. 

"J.  don't  think  you  need  ask  lliat  question — yon^  of  all 
people,"  the  young  man  answered,  sulkily.  "  What  the  deuce 
should  I  do  at  Scarswood,  loo'.ing  at  those  two  billing  and  coo- 
ing? They  say  marriages  are  made  in  Heaven — I  wonder  if 
this  union 'of  a  fool  and  a  knave  was  ever  made  in  the  celestial 
regions  ?     In  the  infernal,  I  should  say  myself." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Dangerfield,  aren't  you  a  little  severe?  A 
fool  and  a  knave  !  Would  Kalherine  have  been  a  fool,  [ 
wonder,  if  she  had  accepted  you  the  other  night  ? 


"  '  Oh,  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted, 
O,  my  Katliie,  mine  no  more  ! ' 


Don't  be  unreasonable,  Mr.  Dangerfield.  You  are  as  poor  a? 
Mr.  Dantree,  and — if  you  will  pardon  my  telling  plain  trudi — 
not  half  a  cjuarter  so  good-looking.  And  then,  she  is  not  mar- 
ried to  him  yet." 

"  No,  but  she  soon  will  be.  It  is  rumored  in  the  town  that 
the  wedding  is  fixed  for  early  January.  It's  of  no  use  your 
talking  and  chaffing  a  fellow,  Mrs.  Vavasor;  the  wedding  day 
will  take  place  as  sure  as  we  sit  here,  and  the  next  thing,  there 
will  he  an  heir  to  Scarswood.  In  the  poetic  language  of  the 
Orientals,  your  talk  of  the  other  night  is  all  'bosh.'  It  is  ut- 
terly impossible  that  Scarswood  should  ever  fall  to  me." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  in  her  agreeable  way. 

"  lm])Ossible  is  a  very  big  word,  friend  Peter — too  big  for  my 
vocabulary.  See  here  I  Will  you  give  me  your  written  i)rom- 
ise  that  on  the  day  Scarswood  and  its  long  rent-roll  becomes 
yours  you  will  pay  me  down  ten  thousand  pounds?  It's  a  tol- 
erable price,  but  not  too  much,  considering  the  service  1  will 
do  you." 

He  looked  at  her  darkly,  and  in  doubt. 

"  Mrs.  Vavasor,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  if  that  be  your  name — anc/ 
I  don't  believe  it  is — I'm  not  going  to  »;omniit  myself  to  you, 
or  anybody,  in  the  dark.  I  am  a  lawyer,  and  won't  break  the 
law.  You're  a  very  clever  little  woman — so  clever  that  for  the 
rest  of  my  life  I  mean  to  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  v.i<h 
you.  If  you  had  a  spite  at  anybody,  I  don't  supjiose  you 
would  stick  at  trilles  to  gratify  it.  Put  I'm  not  going  to  become 
accessory  to  }0U  before  the  fact  to  any  little  \\o\.  of  yours.     If 


1 


THE   SECOND    WARNING. 


71 


ngerfield 
iiustache 

(,  of  all 
he  deuce 
and  coo- 
vonder  if 
celestial 

ere  ?     A 
a  fool,  I 


s  poor  as 

n  truth — 

not  niar- 

:o\vn  that 
use  your 
Iding  day 
ng,  there 
re  of  the 
It  is  ut- 


lig  for  my 
en  proni- 
bccouics 
It's  a  tol- 
ice  I  will 


une — an(/ 
It"  to  you, 
break  the 
lat  for  the 
do  v.i'h 
(jiose  you 
)  become 
yours.     If 


Scarswood  e\  er  comes  to  me,  and  I  repeat,  it  is  impossible  it 
ever  should,  it  shall  be  by  fair  means,  not — foul." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  lay  back  among  the  cushions  and  laughed  till 
the  'ichoes  rang.  They  were  in  the  streets  of  Castleford,  and 
\)assing  pedestrians  looked  up  and  smiled  from  very  sympathy 
with  that  merry  peal. 

"  Me  thinks  I  am  going  to  commit  a  murder  !  I  really  be- 
lieve he  does  !  No — no  !  Mr.  Dangerlield,  I'm  not  a  lawyer, 
Lut  i  respect  the  majesty  of  the  law  quite  as  greatly  as  you  do. 
r  'e  done  a  great  many  queer  things  in  my  life,  1  don't  mind 
owning,  but  I  never  committed  a  murder,  and  I  never  mean 
to,  even  to  gratify  spite.  Come  !  you're  a  coward,  fiwn  ami, 
even  though  you  are  a  Dangerfield  ;  but  if  you  promise  to  per- 
petrate no  deed  of  darkness  on  the  way,  will  you  give  me  that 
ten  thousand  when  you  ar2  lord  of  the  manor.  Yes  or  no  ? 
just  as  you  please.     Sir  John  will,  if  you  won't." 

"  I  wish  I  understood — " 

"  Wait !  wait  !  wait !  You  s/iall  imderstand  !  we  are  draw- 
ing near  the  Hall.     Is  it  a  promise  ?" 

"It  will  be  a  fool's  promise,  given  in  the  dark — but  yes,  if 
you  win  have  it." 

Mrs.  Vavasor's  eyes  si)arkled  with  a  light  this  time  not  de- 
rived from  belladonna. 

"  You  will  give  nie  that  promise  in  writing?  " 

"  In  Jiiiy thing  ;  it  is  easy  enough  to  give  a  promise  we  never 
expect  to  be  called  upon  to  fulfil.  If  ihrougli  you  Scarswood 
Park  becomes  mine,  1  will  willingly  pay  you  the  sum  you  ask." 

"  Very  well,  then — it  is  a  compact  between  us.  You  fetcii 
the  document  in  writing  the  next  time  you  visit  us,  and  let  that 
visit  be  soon.  You  can  surely  bear  the  sight  of  our  lovers' 
raptures  with  the  secret  knowledge  that  they  will  never  end  in 
wedlock." 

"  If  I  thought  that,"  between  his  set  teeth. 

"  You  may  think  it.  I  know  that  of  Katherine  Dangerfield 
which  will  effectually  prevent  Gaston  Dantree  from  marrying 
her.  Ah  1  S[)eak  of  his  Satanic  Majesty  and  he  appears.  I'e- 
hoUl  Katherine  Dangerfield  and  the  handsome  lover  her  money 
has  bought  1  " 

They  came  dashing  out  from  under  the  arched  entrance 
gates,  both  superbly  mounted,  for  Mr.  Dantree  had  the  run  of 
the  Moiecambe  stables.  Remarkably  handsome  at  all  times, 
Mr.  Dantree  invariably  looked  his  best  on  horseback,  and  Miss 
Dangerfield,  in  her  tight-fitting  habit,  her  tall  hat  with  its  sweep- 


72 


THE  SECOND    WARNING. 


% 


ing  purple  plumes,  and  wearing,  oh,  such  an  infinitely  happy 
face,  was,  if  not  handsome,  at  least  dashing  and  bright  enough 
for  the  goddess  Diana  herself. 

"Look,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  said,  maliciously;  ''and  they  say 
perfect  bliss  is  not  for  this  lower  world.  Let  those  who  say  so 
come  and  look  at  Kathcrine  Dangerfield  and  that  beautiAil 
creature,  Oaston  Dantree — the  very  handsomest  man  1  ever 
saw,  I  believe,  and  I  have  seen  some  handsome  men  in  my 
lifetime.  Real  Oriental  eyes,  Mr.  Dangerfield — long,  black, 
lustrous.     And  he  bows  with  the  grace  of  a  prince  of  the  blood." 

The  equestrians  swept  l)y.  Mr.  Dantree  doffed  his  hat,  and 
bowed  low  to  the  smiling  little  lady  in  the  basket  car- 
riage. Miss  Dangerfield's  salute  was  of  the  haughtiest.  Some 
feminine  instinct  told  her  her  father's  guest  was  her  enemy, 
despite  her  sugary  speeches,  her  endearing  epithets,  her  cease- 
less smiles. 

"J  hote  that  woman,  i)apa  1"  Katherine  more  than  once 
burs:  out  to  her  father.  "  I  hate  people  who  go  through  life 
con'jnually  smirking.  If  you  told  her  black  was  white,  she 
would  say,  'So  it  is,  my  sweetest  pet,'  and  look  as  if  she  be- 
lie cd  it — little  hypocrite  !  I  detest  her,  and  she  detests  me, 
and  she  makes  you  miserable — oh,  I  can  see  it !  now  what  I 
want  to  know  is,  what',s  she  doing  here  ? 

And  Katherine  stood  before  her  fiither,  and  looked  for  an 
answer,  with  her  bright,  clear  eyes  fixed  full  upon  him.  He 
had  shifted  under  the  gaze  of  those  frank  eyes,  with  a  sort  of 
suppressed  groan. 

"  I  wish  you  would  try  and  treat  her  a  little  more  civilly  than 
you  do,  Kathie,"  he  answered,  avoiding  his  daugliter's  searching 
glance;  "you  were  perfectly  rude  to  her  last  niglit.  It  is  not 
like  you,  Kathie,  to  be  discourteous  to  tUe  guest  that  eats  of 
your  bread  and  salt." 

*'  And  it  is  very  like  her  to  play  eavesdropper.  I  caughi  her 
behind  a  tall  orange  tree  listening  to  every  word  Gaston  and  I 
were  saying.  I  merely  told  her  1  would  repeat  our  conversa- 
tion any  night  for  her  benefit  if  she  was  so  determined  to  hear 
it  as  to  i)lay  the  spy.  She  is  an  odious  little  wretch,  papa,  if 
she  is  your  friend,  and  I  don't  believe  she  is.  She  paints  and 
she  tells  polite  lies  every  hour  of  (he  day,  and  she  hates  me 
with  the  whole  strength  of  her  venomous  little  soul.  And  she 
looks  at  you  and  speaks  to  you  in  a  way  I  don't  understand  — 
as  though  she  had  you  in  her  power.  Papa,  1  warn  you  I 
You'll  come  to  grief  if  you  keep  any  secrets  from  me." 


THE  SECOND    WARNING. 


11 


r  happy 
enough 


ley  say 
)  say  so 
leautifiil 
1  ever 
n  in  my 
,  black, 

:  blood." 

hat,  and 
kct  car- 
Some 
enemy, 
iv  cease- 

an  once 
ough  life 
'hite,  she 
f  she  be- 
tests  me, 
w  what  I 

cd  for  an 

\\m.     He 

a  sort  of 

vllly  than 
searching 
It  is  not 
at  eats  of 

auglu  her 

iton  and  I 

conversa- 

cd  to  hear 

h,  papa,  if 

l)aints  and 

hates  me 

And  she 

Icrstand— 

*varn  you  ! 


f 


"  Katherine,  for  jiity's  sake,  go  and  leave  me  alone  !  I  in 
her  power  !  What  abominable  nonsense  you  talk.  Go  !  walk, 
drive,  sing,  aiinise  yourself  with  your  new  toy — the  singing  man 
— anything,  only  leave  me  to  read  my  Times  in  peace.  1  begin 
to  believe  Victor  Hugo's  words,  'Men  are  women's  play- 
things, and  women  are  tlie  dev — '  " 

"That  will  do,  papa,"  interrupted  Katherine,  walking  away 
in  offended  dignity.  "You  can  say  things  quite  '^itter  enough 
yourself,  without  (juoting  that  cynical  Frenchman.  Mrs.  Vava- 
sor may  be  Satan's  plaything,  for  what  I  know.  Of  that  you 
are  naturally  the  best  judge.  How  long  is  she  to  force  herself 
upon  us  in  this  house  ?  " 

"/don't  know.  She  will  leave  before  you  are — married  " — 
the  word  seemed  to  choke  him — "  and,  Kathie,  child,  I  (/o  wish 
you  would  try  and  treat  her  with  common  civility — for  my 
sake,  if  not  for  hers." 

"And  why  for  your  sake,  papa?  I  hate  doing  things  in  the 
dark.  What  claim  has  she  upon  you  that  1  should  become  a 
hypocrite  and  treat  her  civilly?" 

"The  claim  of — of  acquaintance  in  the  past,  of  being  my 
guest  in  th ;  present.  And,  without  any  other  reason,  you  might 
do  it  because  I  desire  it,  Katherine." 

"  I  would  do  a  good  deal  to  oblige  you,  papa  ;  even  to — 
well,  even  to  being  civil  to  that  ])ainted,  little,  soft-spoken, 
snake-eyed  woman.  She  has  eyes  precisely  like  x  snake,  and  is 
to  be  trusted  just  as  far.  Papa,  what  is  it  she  knows  about  my 
mother?" 

"  Your  mother  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Just  this — that  she  has  some  secret  in  her  possession  which 
you  are  afraid  she  will  toll,  and  the  secret  concerns  my  mother. 
She  is  trading  on  that  secret  in  forcing  herself  into  this  house, 
for  you  dislike  her  as  much  as  1  do,  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  only 
you  won't  own  it.  I  am  to  be  kept  in  the  dark,  it  seems. 
Very  well  !  I  don't  want  to  pry  into  your  mysteries,  only  you 
can't  expect  me  to  shut  my  eyes  to  what  goes  on  before  them. 
That  woman  has  some  secret  which  you  are  afraic.  she  will  tell, 
and  you  pay  her  large  sums  for  keeping  it,  and  that  secret  con- 
cerns my  mother.  Don't  look  so  thunderstruck,  paj^a !  I 
won't  turn  amateur  detective,  and  try  to  find  it  out,  and  I  will 
be  as  civil  as  it  is  in  human  nature — such  human  nature  as 
mine — to  be  ;  only  don't  try  to  pass  off  that  creature  as  an  old 
friend  or  anything  of  that  sort.  And  get  her  out  of  this  house 
as  soon  as  you  can,  for  all  our  sakes." 


u 


h^ 


I. 


If 

I 


74 


THE  SECOND    WARNING. 


And,  when  Miss  Dangerfu'ld  wnlked  out  of  tjic  room  in  of. 
fended, majesty,  Sir  Joim  was  left  to  enjoy  his  Times  as  l.)est  he 
might  after  learning  his  sliar[5-si[,.';hted  daughter's  discovery. 

Kadierine  tinned  in  her  saddle  now  and  looked  after  the 
pony  ])haetoii  and  its  occupant. 

"  How  I  <\o  dislike  that  woman,  Gaston  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"And  you're  an  micoun-nonly  good  hater,  w^i  /v/A',"  Mr. 
Dantree  answered,  coolly.  "You  can  love,  but  you  can  hate 
also.  In  the  blissful  da}Sto  come,  when  I  am  your  lawful  lord 
and  master,  it  sh  dl  be  my  Christian  endeavor  to  teach  you  bet- 
ter morality.  I  know  several  peo[)le  whose  enmity  1  sliould 
prefer  to  yours." 

"  I  could  never  be  an  enemy  of  yours,  Gaston — never  !  Do 
what  they  might,  I  never  could  hate  those  whom  I  once  loved. 
My  likes  and  dislikes  come  at  first  sight.  I  detested  that 
woman  from  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  her." 

"Feminine  instinct,  I  supi)ose.  There  is  no  love  lost  be- 
tween you,  darling.  I've  caught  her  looking  at  you  at  times 
when  she  thought  no  one  was  watching  her,  and — well,  it 
wasn't  a  pleasant  look,  either,  to  give  or  receive.  She  smiles  a 
great  deal,  but  it  isn't  a  very  mirthful  smile,  and  she's  the  sort 
of  wonum  to  i)resent  you  a  dose  of  strychnine  and  a  kiss 
together.  "What  does  she  do  at  Scarswood?  An  old 
friend  of  his,  I  think  Sir  John  said.  He  didn't  look  at  her  in  a 
very  friendly  manner,  by  the  b}f,  as  he  said  it.  She  is  a  most 
unwelcome  intiuder,  it  is  easy  to  be  seen,  to  Sir  John  as  well 
as  to  you.     \Vhy.  then,  docs  he  not  give  her  her  coni^'i  I " 

"Ah,  why.  indeed,"  Katherine  repeated,  with  a  frown  ;  "  I 
wish  some  one  would  tell  me  why.  There  is  some  secret  un- 
derstanding between  them  that  1  can't  fathom,  1  wonder  if 
papa  ever  connnitted  a  murder,  or  a  forgery,  or  some  interest- 
ing crime  of  that  sort,  and  that  this  little  human  cat  has  found 
it  out,  and  holds  the  secret  like  the  sword  of  Dam — what's-his- 
name — suspended  over  his  head  by  a  single  hair.  That  would 
,be  like  the  plot  of  a  modern  novel." 

"Like  the  ])lot  of  a  n)odern  novel,  perha[)s,  but  not  in  ihe 
least  like  Sir  John  Dangerlield.  Still  I  Uiink  you're  right, 
Kathie  ;  tliere  is  a  secret-  understanding,  and  if  that  under- 
standing relates  to  a  crime,  1  don't  bi;lieve  Sir  John  ever  com- 
niitlcd  it.  The  dear  old  dad  doesn't  over  and  above  like  me, 
my  darling :  still  he's  a  game  old  bird,  and  never  did  mortal 
man  or  woman  wilful  wrong  in  his  life,  I'm  positive.  Doesn't 
our  florid  litde  widow  often  allude  in  an  odd  sort  of  way  to 


li 


THE  SECOND    WARN  INC. 


75 


in  i*n  of- 

Itust  he 
LM-y. 
ifter  the 

limed. 
V,"  Mr. 
:an  hate 
ifiil  lord 
vou  bet- 
i  should 

If!  Do 
2  loved. 
;cd  that 

lost  be- 
at times 
-well,  it 
smiles  a 
the  sort 
a  kiss 
\\\  old 
her  in  a 
s  Tv  most 
1  as  well 

.vn  ;  "  I 
■eret  im- 
'oiuler  if 
interest- 
as  found 
lat's-his- 
Lt  would 

3t  in  I  he 
re  right, 
t  under- 
fcx  com- 
like  me, 
1  mortal 
Doesn't 
f  way  to 


4 


your  mother,  Katliie  ?  Now,  it  strikes  me  the  secret — for  there 
is  one — involves  he*" ' 

"I  think  it  very  nkely,  indeed,"  responded  Kathcrine,  "and 
1  told  jjapa  so  only  yesterday." 

"  You  did !     And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"Nothing  satisfaetory — only  lost  his  temi^er — a  chronic  loss 
with  him  since  Mrs.  Vavasor's  advent.  lie  used  to  be  the 
dearest  old  love,  but  he's  become  completely  demorali^ed  since 
that  woman's  been  in  the  liouse.  She  always  talks  as  if  she 
had  been  an  intimate  friend  of  my  mother's,  and  papa  fidgets, 
and  winces,  and  turns  red  and  pale  by  turns,  and  never  says  a 
word.  Mysteries  may  be  very  interesting,"  said  Miss  Danger- 
field  with  a  frown,  "  but  I'd  rather  have  them  neatly  bound  in 
cloth  than  live  in  the  house  with  them.  One  comfort  is,  she  is 
going  to  leave  Scarswood  before — " 

Katherine  blushed,  and  laughed,  and  broke  oflf. 

"  WeM,  ma  bdle,  before  when  ?  " 

"  Before — oh,  well,  before  we  are  married  !  Now,  Gaston — 
on  the  public  road,  sir,  don't !  It's  all  very  well  to  know  that 
the  sins  of  the  fiithers  shall  be  visited  on  the  children,  and  all 
that,  but  it's  nowhiMe  in  the  catechism,  that  the  inconvenient 
friendshi[)  of  the  mother  shall,  and  I  devoutly  wish  our  visitor 
in  joppa  !  I  never  saw  niy  mother  that  I  can  recollect.  1 
never  heard  papa  speak  much  about  her,  and  everybody  tells 
me  I  don't  look  the  least  in  the  world  like  her — I  don't  look 
like  pai)a  either — Colonel  and  the  late  Mrs.  Dangerfield  were 
both  handsome.  No,  I  don't  want  a  compliment — not  even 
your  eyes,  Gaston,  can  make  me  out  other  than  sallow  and 
plain.  And,"  with  a  little  droop  of  the  head,  a  little  falter  of 
the  young  voice,  "  I  never  wished  in  all  my  life  as  1  have 
wished  to  be  beaut ifid  since — I  have  known  you." 

"  My  dearest  Kaihie,"  Mr.  Dantree  said,  politel)',  struggling 
with  a  yawn,  "for  a  very  sensible  girl,  as  girls  go,- you  can 
talk  precious  nonsense  sometimes  !  Sallow  and  plain  !  I 
confess  I  should  never  have  found  it  out  if  you  had  not  told 
me.  You  don't  want  to  be  cast  in  the  moidd  of  the  stereotype 
British  young  lad\ ,  1  hope,  with  a  face  like  a  pink  and  white 
wax-doll,  and  a  head  more  hollow.  I  can  only  say  if  you  had 
you  would  never  have  bewitched  me." 

"Gaston,"  Miss  Dangerfield  said,  "do  you  know  what  they 
say  in  Castleford — what  xMrs.  Vavasor  says  about  you?" 

"  Not  at  present,"  answered  Mr.  Dantree,  with  his  custoin« 


'I  ■) 


76 


THE  SECOND    WARNrNG. 


ary  imperturbable  sangfroid,  "notlvng  good  though,  I'm  quite 
cerlain." 

"  ihcy  say — it  is  ahnost  ni  ir-ciit  to  you  to  repeat  it — that 
it  is  not  Katherine  DangcrliM  y^n^  love,  but  the  heiress  of 
Scarswood." 

She  looked  up  to  see  some  outbrr  ,  of  indignation — to 
hear  an  indignant  denial.  IJut  Mr.  Dantree  only  smiled  be- 
nignly. 

'*  You  don't  think  that  is  news  to  nie,  do  you,  Kathie?  Of 
course,  they  think — why  shouldn't  th'^y — I  would  ni)  self  in  their 
place.  My  dear  child,  you  are  sewnteen  and  haven't  seen  much 
of  life — I'm  seven  and  twenty  and  have  sten  it  in  all  its  phases. 
And  I  tell  you  no  poor  man,  such  as  i  am,  ever  manicd  a 
wealthy  wife  yet,  that  the  same  wasn't  said.  He  may  love  her 
with  the  passion  of  a  second  Romeo — it  will  make  no  ditfer- 
ci-ce.  She  is  rich,  he  is  poor,  and  it  naturally  follows  he  must 
be  a  mere  mercenary  fortune  hunter.  There  were  ])cople  in 
Lyons,  perhaps,  who  said  Claude  ATelnotte  only  wanted  Pau- 
line for  her  fortune,  until  he  proved  his  disinterestedness.  Of 
course  they  say  I'm  a  fortune-hunter  and  adventurer — I  would 
be  very  greatly  suri^rised  if  they  did  not.  Your  father  thinks 
so — Mrs.  Vavasor,  knowing  how  she  woukl  act  in  my  place, 
thinks  so — your  cousin  Peter,  furious  with  his  late  rejection, 
thinks  so.  Put  you — Kathie — my  darling — "  he  bent  his  pa- 
thetic liciuid  dark  eyes  upon  her,  "  you  surely  do  not  ;  if  you 
do — then  here — this  moment  bid  me  go,  and  I  will  obey." 

"  Gaston — what  nonsense  !  If  I  believed,  would  I  be  at 
your  side  now  ?     1  should  die  if  I  doul)ted  you." 

Mr.  Dantree  laughed  a  little  cynically. 

"No,  you  woukli;'t  die,  Kathie.  Broken  hearts  went  out  of 
fashion  with  Paul  and  Virginia  and  our  great  grandmothers. 
You'd  not  die,  Kathie — you'd  forget  me  in  six  months  for — what 
you  could  easily  find — a  better  man." 

Mr.  Dantree  wasi  iight,  it  would  have  been  7'cry  easy  to  find 
a  better  man,  but  Katherine  Dangeriield  was  seventeen,  and  the 
glamour  of  a  melodious  voice,  of  Spanish  eyes,  and  a  face  like 
some  Rembrandt  picture  was  upon  her,  and  her  whole  heart 
was  in  the  words. 

"  I  would  never  forget.  When  I  forget  you — true  or  false — 
I  shall  have  forgotten  all  things  earthly." 

Something  in  her  tone,  in  her  eyes,  moved  him.  He  lifted 
one  of  her  hands  and  kissed  it. 

"I  am  not  half  worthy  such  love  and  trust  as  youfs.     lam  a 


f 


W^ 


mk 


I 


THE  SECOND    WARNING. 


77 


m  quite 

it— that 
:ircss  of 

:ion—  to 
iled  bc- 

ie?     Of 

'  in  llicir 
Ml  much 
jihasos. 
anicd  a 
love  her 

0  diffcr- 
he  must 
.•opie  ill 
;ccl  Pau- 
:ss.  Of 
•I  would 
:r  thinks 
y  pUice, 
'jcclion, 

his  pa- 
;  if  you 

1  be  at 


It  out  of 
nothers. 
—what 

r  to  find 

and  the 

ace  hke 

le  heart 

•  fais'.j — 

le  hfted 

I  am  a 


villain,  Kathie — not  fit  to  kiss  the  hem  of  your  garment.     My 
life  has  been  one  long  round  of 


'  Reckless  days  and  reckless  nights — 
Unholy  sungs  and  tipsy  fights.' 


]jut  I  will  try — I  will — to  make  you  hajipy  when  you  are  my 
wife.  And  the  sooner  that  day  comes  now  the  better.  Miss 
Dangcifield,"  resuming  his  customary  careless  tone,  "are  you 
aware  it  is  beginning  to  rain?" 

It  had  been  a  fitful  October  day — now  sungloanis,  now  gray 
gloom.      Kallierine  looked  up  at  the  sky,  and  one  great  drop, 
then  another  fell  upon  her  face.     The  wliole  sky  was  dark  witl 
drifting  clouds,  and  growing  each  instant  darker.     The  stornt 
which  had  been  brewing  all  day  was  close  upon  them. 

*'  And  we  are  five  niiles  from  Scarswood,  and  in  five  minutes 
the  rain  will  descend  in  torrents.  Gaston,  what  shall  we  do? 
1  had  rather  not  get  drenched,  papa  will  scold." 

"  And  I  had  rather  not  got  drenched  even  without  a  papa  to 
scold.  Drenching  includes  inlluenza,  watery  eyes,  and  a  ten- 
dency to  talk  through  one's  nose,  and  is  fwi  an  interesting  com-, 
plaint.  Can't  we  run  to  cover  somewhere?  You  know  every- 
body in  this  neighborhood.  There's  Major  Marchmont's  yon- 
der— aren't  those  the  ivied  turrets  of  Marchmont  Place  I 
behold  through  the  trees  ?  " 

"  Y-e-e-s." 

*'  My  dear,  I  understand  your  hesitation.  The  gallant  major 
did  his  ber.t  to  snub  me  the  other  day,  but  I'm  of  a  forgiving 
turn  and  don't  much  mind.  1  think  I  could  endure  that  old 
officer's  grim  looks  more  easily  than  the  raging  elements  on  the 
open  downs.     Shall  we  make  for  Marchmont  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Katherine  ;  "  if  you  can  endure  Major  March- 
mont's insults,  I  can't.  We  can  do  better  than  that — we  can 
go  to  Bracken  Hollow." 

"With  all  my  heart.     Where  is  Bracken  Hollow?" 

"Not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  This  way,  Oaston,  or  we 
shall  get  the  drenching  after  all.  The  place  belongs  to  my  old 
nurse — she  came  wit  i  us  from  India,  and  papa  gave  her  the 
place  to  end  her  day;,  in,  and  to  get  rid  of  her  ;  she  and  Ninon, 
my  maid,  led  a  jierfec  t  cat-and-dog  life.  Quick,  Gaston  !  Good 
gracious,  what  a  deluge  !  " 

The  rain  was  falling  in  torrents  now.  Ilderim  fairly  Hew  be- 
fore it — and  Mr.  Dantree  followed  his  leader.    They  were  close 


11 


78 


THE  SiXOMJ    IVAR.YING. 


to  the  coast;  f;ir  awny  th^  white  fonnung  sea  heaved  its  dull 
bocimingon  the  sliorc  iningV>d  with  the  riisli  of  the  rain. 

"Mere  we  arc!"  Katheri^e  cried:  "and  we  have  got  the 
drenching  after  all." 

And  then  ( Gaston  Dantrce  looked  up  mid  beheld  Ikacken 
Hollow. 

A  long,  low,  black-looking  house,  lying  in  a  sheltered  green 
hollow,  close  to  the  shore,  the  brake  or  brvicken  growing  thick 
and  high  all  around,  and  tall  elms  shutting  it  in.  An  eerie 
spot,  with  the  eternal  thunder  of  the  sea  close  down  below  the 
cliffs  ;  a  lonely  spot,  with  no  other  habitation  near. 

Gaston  Dantree  was  in  no  way  a  sujjerstitious  or  imagina- 
tive man,  but  now  as  he  looked,  that  chill,  creeping  feeliiig 
stole  over  him — that  impressible  shudder  which  makv.'s  people 
say  "some  one  is  walking  over  my  grave,"  thrilled  through 
him. 

"A  ghastly  j^lace  enough,  Kathic,"  he  said,  leaping  off  his 
horse  ;  "a  nunder  might  be  commitied  here  and  no  one  be  the 
wiser." 

"  A  murder  once  was  committed  here,"  Katherine  answered  ; 
"a  terrible  murder.  A  young  girl,  no  older  than  I  am,  shot 
her  false  lover  dead  under  those  funeral  elms.  They  took  her, 
tried  hc-r,  condemned  her,  and  Jumg  her,  and  they  say  those 
ghostly  lovers  keep  tryst  here  still." 

Gaston  Dantree  still  stood  by  his  horse,  looking  with  extreme 
disfavor  at  the  black  cottage,  at  the  blacker  trees. 

'*  A  horrible  story,  and  a  horrible  place.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  if  you'll  believe  me,  Kathie,  1  feel  afraid  to  enter  that 
house.  I'm  not  a  coward  in  a  general  way,  and  once,  out 
West,  slept  a  whole  night  in  a  room  with  a  dead  man,  a  fellow 
who  had  cut  his  own  throat,  without  feeling  any  particular 
qualms  about  it ;  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  want  to  enter  here,  if 
I  beUeved  in  presentiments  now,  or  if  there  were  such  things,  I 
should  say  some  awful  fate  was  going  to  befall  me  at  Bracken 
Hollow !  "  ' 

"  Gaston,  don't  be  a  goose,  and  don't  be  German  and  meta- 
physical. Some  awful  fate  will  overtake  you  at  liracken  Hol- 
low, and  that  speedily  if  you  don't  come  in  out  of  the  rein — an 
attack  of  inllammatory  rheumatism." 

She  skurried  with  uplifted  skirts  into  the  low  porch,  and  her 
lover  slowly  followed. 

Katherine  knocked  loudly  and  imperatively  at  the  door. 

"  She's  deaf,  poor  soul,"  she  said.     "  It's  the  only  one  of  her 


I 


THE  SECOND    WAR.WING. 


79 


*' 


faculties,  except  Iilt  teeth,  that  she  has  lost.  Are  one's  teeth 
one's  faciihies,  (laston?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  aiul  extremely  important  about  dinner-time. 
I  can't  say  I  envy  your  ex-nurse  the  cheerful  spot  in  wliich  she 
is  spending  the  lively  remainder  of  her  days.  Ah,  the  door 
opens.  Now  for  the  presiding  witch  of  Hracken  Mollow. 
]Jracken  Hollow — there's  something  ghostly  and  gloomy  in  the 
very  name." 

A  tall  old.  woman,  hale  and  erect,  with  iron-gray  hair  and 
l)reternaturally  bright  eyes,  held  open  the  door  and  looked 
stolidly  at  her  two  visitors. 

"  How  do,  Hannah?  Get  out  of  the  way,  you  hospitable 
old  soul  and  let  us  in.  You  needn't  mind  if  you're  not  dressed 
for  company — considering  the  weather  we  won't  be  ft'stidious. 
Any  port  in  a  storm,  you  know.  'I'his  is  Mr.  daston  Dantree, 
Hannah.     You've  heard  of  him,  I  dare  say." 

Old  Hannah  reared  herself  a  little  more  upright  and  trans- 
fixt'd  the  I.ouisianian  with  her  biilliant  little  eyes. 

*'  I've  heard  of  .\Ir.  (Gaston  Dantree — yes,  Miss  Katherine, 
and  I'm  glad  you've  brought  him  to  see  me." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  be  very  cordial  about  it  then  ;  you  don't 
say  you're  glad  to  see  him." 

"  I'm  not  a  fine  lady.  Miss  Katherine — I  don't  tell  polite 
lies.  I'm  not  glad.  You're  going  to  marry  him,  they  say — is 
it  true?" 

"  Well,  yes,"  Katherine  laughed,  good-naturedly,  "  I'm  afraid 
it  is.  You  i)ity  him,  nursey,  don't  you  ?  You  took  care  of  mc 
a  decade  of  years  or  so,  and  you  know  what  he  has  to  ex- 
pect." 

"  I  pity  you  !"  old  Hannah  answered,  with  a  second  solemn, 
l)rolonged  stare  at  her  nurseling's  lover;  "1  pity  you  !  Only 
seventeen,  and  trouble,  trouble,  troul)le  before  you." 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  stare  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  out 
of  countenance  as  a  general  tiling,  but  his  eyes  fell  now  before 
old  Hannah's  basilisk  gaze. 

"  Confound  the  hag  !  "  he  muttered,  turning  to  the  window  ; 
"  what  does  she  mean  ?  " 

Katherine  was  fond  of  her  old  nurse — too  fond  to  be  irritated 
now  by  her  croaking. 

"Don't  be  disagreeable,  Hannah,"  she  said;  "and  don'i 
stare  in  that  Gorgon-like  way.  It's  rude,  and  Mr.  Dantree  is 
modest  tc  a  fault.  See  how  you  put  him  out  of  countenance.  Sit 
down  here,  like  a  dear  old  thing,  and  tell  me  all  about  the  rheu- 


II 


i' 


80 


THE  SECOXD   WARNING. 


matism,  and  wliat  you  want  ine  to  get  you  for  the  winter ;  you'll 
have  lots  of  lime  before  the  rain  hokls  uj)." 

•''Ihe  rain  is  holding  up  now,  Kathie,"  her  lover  said.  ♦' I 
knew  it  was  too  violent  to  last.  In  ten  niii:utes  it  will  have 
ceased.     Couk*,  we  can  go," 

lie  could  not  account  to  himself  for  his  feverish  haste  to 
leave  this  place — for  the  sudden  and  intense  dislike  he  had 
taken  to  this  grim  old  woman. 

"  I'll  go  and  see  to  the  horses,"  he  said,  and  smoke  a  cigar 
in  the  porch,  while  you  talk  to  your  iuu>>e." 

He  (luitted  the  room.  Katherinc  looked  after  the  graceful 
figure  and  negligent  walk  with  eyes  full  of  girlish  admiiation  ; 
liien  she  turned  to  Ilaiunh. 

Isn't  he  handsome,  nursey  ?  Now  confess;  you're  sixty  or 
more,  but  you  like  handsome  peojjle  still,  don't  you?  Isn't 
he  just  the  very  handsomest  man  you  ever  saw  in  all  vour 
life?" 

"He's  rare  and  haiidsome,  Miss  Kathie,"  the  old  woman 
said,  slowly  ;  "  rare  and  handsome  surely.  lUit,  my  little  one, 
don't  you  many  him.  it's  not  the  f;ice  to  trust — it's  as  false  as 
it's  fair." 

"  Now    Hannah,  I    can't   listen    to   this — I   really  can't.     I 
thought     you    would    have    wished    me  joy,    if    nobody   else. 
]'A'er)body  says  horrid  things — nothing  is  too  bad  to  be  said  of 
Mr.  l)antree  — and  all  because  he  is  poor  and  1  am  rich— fort- 
une hunter,  adventurer,  false.      It's  a  shame." 

"  It's  the  tnUh,  my  bairnie.  lie  warned,  and  draw  back 
while  there  is  yet  time." 

Miss  Dangerfield  arose  with  calm  dignity.  It  wasn't  worth 
while  losing  one's  temper  with  old  Hannah. 

"  Good-by,  nursey — I'm  gt  "'ig.  You  are  disagreeable  to  day, 
and  I  always  go  away  inunediately  from  disagreeable  people. 
I  shall  send  you  those  flannels,  though,  all  the  same.  Good- 
by." 

She  was  gone  as  she  si)oke.  The  rain  had  nearly  ceased, 
and  Mr.  Dantree  was  waiting  for  her  impatiently.  His  dusk. 
Southron  fac*  looked  strangely  pallid  in  the  gray  twilight  of  the 
wet  October  evening. 

"  Come,  Kathie  ;  it  will  rain  again  presently,  and  night  will 
fall  in  half  an  hour.  The  sooner  we  see  the  last  of  IJracken 
i^lollow  the  better." 

"  How  frightened  he  is  of  Bracken  Hollow  !"  Katherinesaid, 
laughing  :  "  like  a  child  of  a  bogie.     Why,  I  wonder  ?  " 


r 


^ 


I 


A   LETTER  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS, 


8l 


"  Why,  indeed  ?    Why  do   you   hate   ^^rs.   Vavasor,   Kath» 
crine  ?     She  hasn't  given  you  any  cause — yet. 


"  '  I  ilo  not  like  yoii,  Dr.  Fell, 
The  rea»»>n  why,  1  cannot  tcU.' 

I  can't  tell  you  why,  but  1  never  want  to  -le  Bracken  Hollow 
again." 

She  looked  up 'into  his  fare.  What  a  darkly  moody  expres- 
sion it  wore  !  it  half-spoiled  his  beauty.  And  all  the  way 
home,  through  the  chill,  rainy  gloaming,  old  Hannah's  wo-ds 
rang  like  a  warning  in  her  cars  :  •'  False  as  fair — false  as  fair  I  " 


CHAPTER  MIW, 


A   LETTER   FROM   NEW   ORLEANS. 

R.  DAN  TRI'^.E  dined  at  Scarswood,  and  rode  home- 
ward through  the  wet  darkness  somewhere  before  mid- 
night. 

It  had  been  a  very  |)leasant  evening,  and  the  Louis- 
ianian  was  in  tlie  best  possible  si)irits  as  he  rode  back  to 
Morecambe.  The  day  was  drawing  near  when  a  more  splen- 
did abode  than  Morecambe  would  be  his — when  he  would 
reign  supreme  at  Scarswood  Park, 

"The  governor  can't  'lold  out  very  long  now,"  Mr.  Dantree 
mused.  "After  thirtec.  years  of  hill-life  in  India,  his  liver 
can't  be  the  si/e  of  a  walnut — and  then,  he's  apoplectic.  Your 
short-necked,  llorid  faced,  hi  dtliy-looking  old  buftVrs  are  always 
fragile  blossoms ;  it's  touch  and-go  with  them  at  any  moment. 
And  he's  taking  his  daughter's  engagement  to  my  noble  self 
desperately  to  heart — he's  been  breaking  every  day  since.  I 
w(jndor  what's  up  between  him  and  the  little  widow?  It 
wouldn't  be  pleasant  if  she  should  turn  out  to  be  a  first  wife,  or 
something  of  that  sort,  and  at  his  death  produce  an  interesting 
heir  or  heiress  and  oust  Mrs.  Uantree.  It  looks  suspiciously 
like  it ;  she's  got  a  strong  claim  of  some  kind  upon  him,  and 
he's  more  afraid  of  her  than  he  ever  was  of  the  savagest  .Sepoy 
out  yonder.  I  wish  1  could  get  at  the  bottom  of  the  matter, 
before  1  commit  myself  further  and  slip  the  ring  over  Miss  l)an- 
gerfielJ's   finger.     Not  that   it  matters  very  greatly — neither 


t2 


A   LETTER  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS. 


I  I 


matrimonial  nor  any  other  fettt^rs  ever  could  bind  me.  It  may 
all  turn  out  right,  however,  and  1  may  reign  grand  seigneur  of 
Scarswood.  Raihcr  a  change  in  a  few  months,  for  a  penniless 
^.enny-a-lincr.  Marie's  the  only  drawback.  If  ever  she  finds 
this  out,  there'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  in  New  Orleans." 

Miss  Dangerfield  had  been  rather  surprised  when  on  enter- 
ing the  drawing-room  that  evening,  after  her  wet  ride  from 
Bracken  Hollow,  she  found  her  cousin  Peter  jjlaying  chess  with 
Iilrs.  Vavasor.  It  was  the  hrs*;  time  since  their  quarrel  that  he 
had  entered  the  house.  She  went  over  to  him  with  the  frank, 
girlish  grace  that  always  characterized  her,  and  gave  hi'n  her 
hand. 

"  Welcome  back  to  Scarswood,  cousin,"  she  said  ;  "  I  began 
to  think  you  had  (^uite  deserted  us.  Is  it  to  the  claims  of  kin- 
shii)  or  to  the  fliscinations  of  Mrs.  Vavasor  we  owe  the  present 
visit,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  A  little  of  both,  Kathie,  and  a  cousinly  desire  to  offer  my 
congratulations  to  the  future  Mrs.  Dantree.  I  wish  you  both 
every  hap[)iness." 

He  did  not  look  at  her  as  he  said  it,  and  something  in  his 
voice  (struck  unpleasantly  on  Katherine's  ear. 

"  Vou  are  very  good,"  she  said,  a  little  coldly.  'May  I 
overlook  your  game  ?     NVho  is  going  to  win  ?  " 

"  1  am  of  course.  IVc  come  of  a  race,  Kathie,  that  always 
win." 

])Ut  Mr.  Dangerfield  was  mistaken. 

"  Check  !"  Mrs.  \'a\asor  cried,  sharply  and  triumphantly,  a 
few  minutes  after.  "  Your  race  n)ay  always  win  except — when 
they  have  a  Vavasor  for  an  enemy." 

Kntherine's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Try  again,  Peter,"  she  said  ;  "  a  Dangerfield  never  yields  ! ' 

"1  fear  I  nnist  ;  i  am  no  match  for  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Ah! 
here  is  Dantree — lucky  dog  !  I  must  go  over  and  congratulate 
him.  It's  not  every  day  a  |)oor  devil  drops  into  eight  thousand 
a  year  and  the  finest  jilace  in  the  count)'." 

"  Katherine  dear,  sup|)0se  )  ou  try."  Mrs.  Vavasor  gayly  ex- 
claimed, "  and  vindicate  the  honor  of  the  Dangerfields.  1  play 
chess  jjretty  well,  but  who  knows — you  may  become  more  than 
a  match  for  me." 

"  Well,"  Katherine  said  coolly,  "  I  think  in  the  long  run  I 
would.  I  have  a  great  deal  of  determination — obstinacy  per- 
hajjs  you  might  call  it — and  when  I  make  up  my  mind  to  do 
anything,  1  generally  do  do  it." 


I 

* 


!■ 


It  may 

[iieiir  of 
eiiniless 
le  finds 

n  entfr- 
le  from 

CSS  with 
that  lie 

e  frank, 

li'n  her 

I  l)egan 
1  of  kin- 
present 

)lTer  my 
Jii  botli 

g  in  his 

May  I 

always 


mtly,  a 
—when 


elds  !  • 

Ah! 

alulate 

ousand 

yly  ex- 

1  play 

i"e  than 

;  run  I 
:y  i)er. 
I  to  do 


w 

f 


f 


A  LETTER  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS. 


^l 


"Such  as  marrying  a  handsome  tenor  singer.  Don't  be  an- 
gry, Katherine.  AFr.  l^anlree  is  worthy  of  you,  I  am  sure. 
N  jw,  then,  for  a  pitched  battle  between  you  and  me,  and  woe 
to  the  conquered  !  " 

There  was  a  sneering  defiance  underlying  her  words — a  sar- 
donic gleam  in  her  black  eyes  that  Katherine  understood. 
There  was  more  at  stake  than  a  simple  game  of  chess ;  they 
looked  at  one  another  steadily  for  an  instant,  then  began  the 
game. 

The  two  gentlemen  approached,  Peter  Dangerfield  took 
his  i)lace  behind  the  chair  of  the  widow ;  Mr.  Dantree  leaned 
lightly  over  that  of  Kathie.  They  stood  like  two  seconds 
watching  a  duel,  and  neither  spoke.  A  profound  stillness  filled 
the  long,  velvet-hung,  lamplit  drawing-room,  in  which  you 
could  hear  the  light  tailing  on  the  cinders  in  the  grate,  the 
ceaseless  beating  of  the  rain  on  the  glass.     Which  would  win  ? 

The  wMdow,  it  seemed.  In  the  gleam  of  the  lamp-light  there 
was  a  flush  on  her  cheek  that  was  not  all  rouge,  a  sparkle  in 
her  black  eyes,  not  belladonna.  She  wore  a  wine-colored  silk, 
decollete,  and  her  plump,  white  shoulders  and  arms  shone  like 
marble  ;  the  rich,  ruby-red  jewels  flashed  on  her  fingers,  on  her 
neck  ;  a  bracelet  of  fine  gold  and  rubies  encircled  her  wrist, 
and  a  crimson  rose  nestled  in  the  shining,  luxurious  blackness 
of  hair.  All  crimson  and  black — with  a  fiery  intensity  of  i)ur- 
pose  flushing  her  face — and  Uiat  peculiar  glittering  smile  of  hers 
on  her  thin  lips,  (iaston  Dantree  thought  of  some  beautifiil 
Circe — some  fatal  siren  come  on  earth  to  work  ruin  and  dark- 
ness. 

"  And  yet,  after  all,"  he  thought,  "  I  believe  in  my  soul 
Katherine  is  more  than  a  match  for  her.  How  coolly — how 
thoroughly  calm  and  self-possessed  she  sits,  not  one  pulse  beat- 
ing the  quicker — while  the  eyes  of  her  enemy  are  on  fire  with  her 
devilish  determination  to  win.  In  a  long-drawn  battle  of  any 
kind  between  these  two,  I'd  back  the  heiress  of  Scarswood." 

Then  more  and  more  absorbed  in  the  game  he  forgot  even 
to  think.  He  bent  over  until  his  crisp  black  curls  touched 
Katherine' s  cheek.  She  glanced  up  at  him  for  a  second — her 
still  face  brightening — a  famt  color  coming  in  her  cheeks. 

"  A  drawn  battle  is  it  not,  Gaston  ?  "  she  said,  "  and  a  true 
Dangerfield  prefers  death  to  defeat." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  saw  both  look  and  smile,  and  a  savage  resolu- 
tion to  win  at  all  hazards  possessed  her.  Siie  knit  her  straight 
black  brows,  and  bent  to  the  game,  her  lips  compressed  in  one 


m 

'  i 

1         ''i 

II  Ii 


itafi 


Ml 


!'  (f  i^*' 


84 


/I   LETTER  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS. 


straight  red  liiK^  She  hated  Katherineat  tluit  moment  with  an 
intensity  she  had  never  felt  before.  How  coolly  she  sat  ihere 
making  her  moves,  with  a  face  of  marble,  while  she  was  thrilling 
in  every  vein  with  a  fever  of  excitement.  And  how  she  loved 
that  man  behind  her,  and  how  happy  she  was  in  that  love. 

"  And  \.olicr  mother  I  owe  all  I  ha\e  ever  suflered— the  sin, 
ihe  sorrow,  the  shame  !  Pray  Heaven  they  may  fix  the  wed- 
ding-day speedily,  or  1  shall  never  be  able  to  wait  I  1  wonder 
how  I  have  wailed  all  these  years  and  years.  Ah  !  a  false  move, 
my  lady,  a  false  move      The  victory  is  mme  ! " 

But  the  exultant  thou^^ht  came  too  soon.  Katherine's  move, 
made  after  long  deliberaiion,  certainly  looked  like  a  false  one 
--the  widow  answered  in  a  glow  oftriump'i.  A  second  later 
and  hbe  saw  her  mistake — Katherine's  false-seeming  move  had 
been  made  with  deliberate  intention.  Her  e)es  Hashed  for  the 
fust  time — she  made  a  last  rapid  pass  and  rose  concjueror. 

"Checkmated!"  she  cried,  with  a  slight  laugh  of  triumph. 
"  I  knew  1  should  van([uish  you  in  the  end,  Mrs.  Vavasor  !  " 

"  Dinner  '  "  announced  the  butler,  Hinging  wide  the  door, 
and  Miss  Dangerheld  took  the  arm  of  Mr.  Dantree  and  swept 
with  him  into  the  dining-room. 

"You  did  that  splendidly,  Kathie,"  he  said  ;  "you  have  no 
idea  how  i)roud  I  am  of  your  concjucst ;  and  she  was  so  sure  of 
winning.  She  hates  you  as  those  little  venomous  women  only 
can  hale — do  you  know  it?" 

"  Certainly  1  know  it,"  Kathei  ine  responded  with  supreme 
carelessness.  "  1  have  known  it  ever  since  I  saw  her  fust. 
She  hales  me  and  could  strycliuine  me  this  moment  with  all  the 
pleasure  in  life." 

"  Dut  why,  I  wonder  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dantrec,  "  you  never  knew 
her  before  sh(^  came  here — you  never  did  anything  to  harm 
her  ?  " 

"  My  dearest  Gaston,  it  is  not  always  the  people  who  have 
done  something  to  harm  us  we  dislike  most.  We  detest  them 
because  we  detest  them.  Mrs.  Vavasor  and  I  are  antagonistic  ; 
we  would  sim[jly  hate  each  other  under  any  circumstances. 
How  bent  she  was  on  winning  that  game,  and  I — I  should  have 
died  of  mortification  if  she  had," 

"  Take  care  of  her,  Kathie  !  that  woman  means  to  do  you 
injury  of  some  kind  before  she  quits  this  house.  Whether  it 
be  for  your  mother's  sak(;  or  your  own,  doesn't  matter— she 
means  to  harm  you  if  .she  can." 

Katherine  threw  back  her  head  with  an  imperial  geature. 


A  LETTER  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS, 


85 


J 


"  Let  her  !  I  aJii  not  afraid.  If  it  comes  to  that,  I  may  beat 
her  at  her  own  game,  as  I  did  five  minutes  ago.  She  can't  take 
you  from  me,  Gaston,"  with  a  hltle  gay  laugh—"  can'she  ?  Any- 
thing else  1  fnvicy  1  can  bear." 

He  stooped  and  answered  her  in  whispered  words,  and  Kath- 
erine's  face  was  (^uite  radiant  as  she  took  her  place  at  the 
table. 

i\[rs.  Vavasor  followed  with  Mr.  Dangcrfield.  She  had  risen 
from  the  table  and  taken  his  proffered  arm,  quite  white  for  an 
instant  through  all  her  rouge.  He  saw  that  pallor  beneath  paint 
and  powder. 

"  And  you  are  beaten  after  all,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  and  by  Kath- 
crine  Dangerfield  !  Your  game  of  chess  meant  more  than  a 
game  of  chess — is  it  emblematic?  She's  fearfully  and  won- 
derfully plucky,  this  cousin  of  mine.  Will  she  come  off  vic- 
torious at  other  games  than  chess,  I  wonder?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  for  one  moment,  and,  all  the  passion, 
the  rage,  the  hatred,  smouldering  within  her,  burst  forth. 

"  I'll  crush  her  !  "  she  cried  in  a  furious  whisper.  "  I'll  crush 
her !  And  the  day  is  very  near  now.  This  is  only  one  more 
item  added  to  the  long  account  I  owe  her.  She  shall  pay  off 
all — the  uttermost  fariiiing,  with  compound  interest." 

**  And  stab  through  ////;/,"  Peter  Dangerfield  said  darkly  ; 
*'  the  surest  blow  you  can  strike  is  the  one  that  proves  him  the 
traitor  and  fortune-hunter  he  is.  I  believe  in  my  soul  it  would 
be  her  death." 

*'  I  shall  strip  her  of  all— all — lover — father,  name  even.  I 
will  wait  until  her  wedding-day  and  strike  home  then.  When 
her  cup  of  bliss  is  fullest  and  at  her  very  lii)s  I  shall  dash  it 
down.  And,  my  brilliant,  haughty,  high-si)iriled  heiress  of  Scars- 
wood,  how  will  it  be  with  you  then  ?" 

3ir  John  was  in  his  place — a  darkly  moody  host,  amid  the 
lights,  the  llowers,  and  the  wines.  Mrs.  Vavasor  was  even  in 
higher  spirits  than  usual.  Mr.  Dangerfield  was  talkative  and 
agreeable,  Katherine  was  happy,  and  disposed  to  be  at  jjeace 
with  the  world  and  all  therein,  even  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Siie  loved, 
she  was  beloved— all  life's  greatest  happiness  is  said  in  that. 
For  Mr.  Dantree,  he  was  simply  delightful.  He  told  them  in- 
imitable stories  of  life  in  the  Southern  States,  until  even  grim 
Sir  John  relaxed  into  interest,  and  after  dinner  in  the  drawing- 
room  sang  for  them  his  favorite  after-dinner  song,  "  When  the 
Winecup  is  Si)arkling  IVfore  Us,"  in  his  delicious  voice,  that 
enchanted  even  those  who  hated  him  most.     'I'he  piano  stood 


I  1 

i 


141 


I'ii 


86 


A   LETTER  FROM  NEIP"  ORLEANS. 


in  a  shadowy  rcresfs  down  at  one  extremity  of  the  long  room — 
Kathcrine  and  lie  liad  it  all  to  ihemselves.  Mrs.  Vavasor  was 
busy  with  some  Ihmsy  feminine  hancHwork.  Mr.  Dan^erfield 
sat  beside  her,  turning  over  a  book  of  i^hotographs,  and  Sir  John 
lying  back  in  his  easy-chair,  kept  his  eyes  closed  as  though 
asleep.  Mis  face  wore  a  worn  look  of  care — he  was  watching 
those  two  shadowy  figures  at  the  piano,  and  as  he  listened  to 
this  man's  voice,  so  thrillingly  sweet,  as  he  looked  at  his  face 
—the  lamplight  streaming  on  his  dusk  Spanish  beauty,  he 
scarcely  wondered  at  Katherinc's  infatuation. 

"  Iviirer  than  a  woman  and  more  unstable  than  wattt,"  he 
thought,  bitterly,  **  and  this  is  the  reed  she  has  chosen  to  lean 
upon  thro'igh  life  !  My  poor  little  Kathie,  and  I  am  powerless 
to  save  you — unless — I  s[)eak  and  tell  all.  Heaven  help  you 
if  this  mar.  ever  finds  out  the  tr".di." 

"  Sing  me  something  Scotch,  (iaston,"  Katherine  said.  She 
was  seated  in  a  low  fiiuteuil,  close  beside  him,  her  hands  lying 
idly  in  her  lap — her  head  back  among  the  cushions.  It  was 
characteristic  of  this  young  lady  that  she  had  never  done  a 
stitch  of  fancy-work  in  her  life.  She  was  cjuite  idle  now,  per- 
fectly happy — listening  to  the  howling  of  the  October  storm  in 
the  park,  and  Mr.  Dantree's  excpn'site  singing. 

"Sing  something  Scotch — a  balhul.  If  1  his-,  a  veakness, 
which  is  doubffid,  it  is  for  Scotch  son^^>;," 

Mr.  Dantree  heard  but  to  obey.  He  ran  his  fingers  lightly 
over  the  keys,  smiled  slightly  to  himself,  and  glanced  half-mali- 
ci(nisly  at  the  girl's  supremely  contented  face. 

'*  How  well  pleased  she  looks,"  he  thought.  "  I  wonder  if  [ 
cannot  change  that  blissful  ex[)ression.  Many  women  have 
done  me  the  honor  to  fall  in  love  with  nie,  but  I  don't  think 
any  of  them  were  quite  so  hard  hit  as  you,  not  even  excepting 
Marie." 

He  played  a  prelude  in  a  plaintive  minor  key,  wonderfully 
sweet.  ^  iih  a  wailing  understrain,  quite  heart-breaking,  and  sang. 
His  taci..  f-oi  )g?(l  an'l  darkened,  his  voice  took  a  pathos  none 
of  his  heare  .>  had  evv.r  heard  before. 

'  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fni.  maid — 

A  w    i-y  lo?  is  Miisi'  ! 
To  pii.'  'lie  liiorn  tliy  brow  to  braid 

Aiul  jircss  (he  ri'c  IVir  wine. 
A  Iii»lit  onic  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

\  Ica'Mer  of  the  blue 
i\  >nib  ct  iif  the  Lincoln  green 

No  more  of  nH-  yon  knew, 
My  love  ! 

No  more  of  nic  you  knew. 


A  LETTER  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS. 


87 


room — 
sor  was 
igc'iTield 
Sir  J(jhn 
tli()U"h 
/atching 
encd  to 
his  face 
luty,  he 

Ltti,"  he 

to  lean 

jwcrless 

iclp  you 

d.  She 
(Is  lying 
It  was 
done  a 
ow,  pcr- 
slonii  in 

eakness, 

s  lightly 
lalf-niali- 

ndcr  if  I 
en  have 
I't  think 
xcepting 

iiderfully 
md  sang. 
10s  none 


"  This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

'J'he  rose  is  Inidding  fain, 
lint  she  sliall  bluoin  in  winter  snow 

Kre  wu  two  meet  a^jain  ! 
He  turned  his  cliarger  as  he  spoke 

UiHiii  tlic  river  shiire — 
He  cave  the  reins  a  shake,  and  said  : 

'  Adieu  forevermore, 

Mj'love! 

Adieu  forevermore.'" 

It  (lied  out  faint  and  low  as  the  last  cadence  of  a  funeral 
jiymn.  And  then  he  glanced  at  Katherine.  He  //^r^/ changed 
the  expression  of  that  sensitive  face  cruelly — it  lay  back  now 
against  the  ruby  red  of  the  velvet,  as  colorless  as  the  winter 
snow  of  which  he  sang.      He  arose  from  the  piano  with  a  laugh. 

"  Kathie,  you  are  as  white  as  a  gliost.  1  have  given  you  the 
blues  with  my  singing,  or  bored  you  to  deatJi.     Which  ?  " 

She  laughed  a  little  as  she  rose. 

"  Your  song  was  beautiful,  (laston,  but  twice  too  sad — i^  has 
given  me  the  heartache.  It  is  too  suggestive,  I  supi)Ose,  of 
man's  jjerfidy  and  woman's  broken  trust.  1  never  want  to  hear 
you  sing  that  again." 

It  was  late  when  the  two  gentlemen  bade  good-night  and 
left.  Mrs.  Vavasor  took  her  niglu  lamp  and  went  up  the  black 
oaken  stairway,  her  rul)y  silk  trailing  and  gleaming  in  lurid 
splendor  behind  her. 

"  Good-niglU,  Kathi :,  darling — how  pale  and  tired  the  child 
looks.  And  you  didn't  like  that  divine  Mr.  Dantree's  last 
song?  It  was  the  gem  of  the  evening  to  my  mind — so  sug- 
gestive and  all  that.  Be?inc  unit  d  bonnes  rcvcs,  via  hclle^' — 
Afrs.  Vavasor  had  a  habit  among  her  other  gushing  habits  of 
gushing  out  into  foreign  languages  now  and  then — "and  try 
and  get  your  bright  looks  back  to-morrow.  Don't  let  your 
complexion  fade  for  any  man — there  isn't  one  on  earth  wort!i 
it.     A  dcmain  1  good- night. 

"  '  A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 
A  fcaili'.T  (if  the  l)hie, 
A  doiililL-t  1)1  the  Lincoln  green, 
No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love. 
No  more  of  me  you  knew  I '  " 

And  with  a  last  backward  gla'xe  and  still  singing  the  ominous 
song,  brilliant  little  Mrs.  Vavasor  vanished. 

Mr.  Caston  Dantree  rode  back  to  his  temporary  home  at 
Morecambe  in  very  excellent  spirits.  What  an  unconnnonly 
good-looking,  fascinating  sort  of  fellow  he  must  be  that  a// the 


88 


A  LETTER  FROM  I^EW  ORLEANS, 


\    I 


fi 


women  slumlcl  lose  their  heads  for  him  in  this  fashion.  Surely 
the  goils  who  presided  over  his  destiny  must  have  been  in  a 
most  propitious  mood  when  they  created  him  their  bright  partic- 
ular star. 

"  I've  always  heard  it  is  better  to  be  born  lucky  than  rich, 
and  gad  !  J  believe  it.  /  was  born  a  pauper.  My  mother 
vended  apples  in  the  streets  of  New  York  ;  and  my  father — 
well,  the  less  said  about  him,  the  better.  He  bequeathed  me 
his  good  looks,  his  voice,  and  his — loose-fitting  morality.  Un- 
til tlic  at;/,  of  eight,  I  ran  wild  about  the  streets  ;  then  my  pretty 
face,  and  curly  head,  and  artistic  way  of  singing  '  Oh,  Susannah  ! ' 
attract  c'  the  attention  of  Mrs.  Weymore,  rich,  childless,  sonti- 
mentjl,  aoiKl-natured,  and — a  foul.  1  was  sent  to  school, 
tricked  (.I'lt  in  velvet  and  ruUlcs,  kissed,  praised,  [Netted,  llat- 
tcrcd,  spoiled  by  all  tlie  ladies,  young  and  old,  w!io  visited  my 
foster  mamma;  and,  by  Jove  !  they've  been  at  it  ever  since. 
Then  at  sixtec.i  cam-'  that  ugly  little  ('pisode  (  '"  the  forged 
check.  Tliat  was  luishec'  up.  Then  followed  the  robbery  of 
Mrs.  \\''eymore's  diamonds,  traced  clearly  home  to  me.  They 
would  not  overlook  that.  1  inherited  my  light  fmgered  pro- 
clivities from  my  father  as  woli  as  the  good  looks  they  praised  ; 
but  tliev  wouldn't  take  that  into  con  '  ••■ration.  Then  for  four 
years  there  was  the  living  by  niv  wits — doing  a  little  of  every- 
thing under  heaven.  Then  came  New  Orleans  and  my  new, 
and,  I  flattered  myselt",  taking  cognomc  a  of  (iaston  Dantree, 
my  literary  ventures,  and  their  success  in  their  way.  Aiul  then 
after  three  years  more  came  old  I)e  1. ansae  and  Marie — poor 
I'ltle  Marie.  1  thought  I  had  found  the  purse  of  I'ortunatus 
t.un,  when,  lo  !  the  ol'J  fool  must  uj)  and  get  married.  And, 
as  if  that  weren't  e-i'm..',/!,  ilier..  must  follow  an  heir,  and  adieu 
to  all  Marie's  ho|)es  and  miii^'.  Then  i  crossed  tlie  Atlantic  to 
try  niy  liuk  on  this  sic!.^  t!ic  ponu,  and  I  believe  I've  accom- 
plishetl  my  dchliny  at  last,  .is  lord  of  Scarswood,  at  eight  thou- 
sand a  year.  1  believe  I  .'•  I  be  a  sc]  lare  p'-g,  fitting  neat 
and  trim  into  a  sciiuuj  liole.  Katherine'..  a  drawback — exact- 
ing, and  romantic,  ,.nd  all  t  at  bosh — but  everything  as  we 
wish  ii,  1.3  not  for  this  world  be.ow.  The  o'-l  gentleman  will  go 
toes  up  shortly.  I  shall  take  the  name  of  Sir  Dantree  Dan- 
gerl'ield,  sink  the  (iasion,  and  live  happy  forever  offer." 

Mr.  Dantree  was  still  singing  that  ballad  of  "die  faithless  lover 
as  he  ran  lightly  upstairs  to  his  room.  He  threw  off  his  wet 
overcoat,  poked  the  fire,  turned  up  the  lamp,  and  saw  on  the 
table  a  letter. 


\   . 


A  LETTER  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS. 


89 


Now  a  letter  to  the  handsome  tenor  singer  was  not  an  agree- 
able sight.  Lclte:s  sini])!)'  meant  duns  or  else — He  snatched 
it  up  with  an  oath.  TliKi  was  no  dun  ;  it  was  something  even 
worse.  It  was  superscribed  in  a  woman's  hand,  and  was  post- 
marked New  Orleans. 

"  I'Yom  Marie,  by  Jupiter  !  "  he  exclaimed,  blankly.  •*  Now, 
how  the  (lev— ah,  I  iuive  it.  It  came  to  my  address  in  London, 
and  the  pubHshers  have  forwarded  it  here.  Shall  I  open  it,  or 
l)itch  it  into  the  tire  unread?  Deuce  take  all  women.  Can  they 
never  let  a  fellow  alone  ?  What  a  paradise  earth  would  be  with- 
out Ihcm  I  " 

He  did  not  throw  the  letter  into  the  fire,  however.  He  liirew 
himself  into  an  easy  chair  instead,  stretched  forth  his  splashed 
riding  boots  to  the  blaze,  and  tore  it  open.  It  had  the  merit 
of  being  brief  at  least,  and  remarkably  to  the  point  : 

Nkw  Orlkans,  Sept.  i6th,  1S69, 
CiASTON  : — Are  you  never  poing  to  uiitc  ?  -  are  you  never  cnniing 
back  ?  Are  you  ill  or  are  you  luilliless?  'I'lie  la~-t,  surely  ;  it  would  be  in 
keepiiiL,'  wiih  all  the  rest.  Does  your  ilead  silence  mean  lliat  I  am  deserted 
ami  forever  ?  If  so,  only  say  i',  and  V"//  are  free  as  the  wind  that  blows. 
I  will  never  follow  you — never  ask  auj^iit  of  you.  No  man  alive — though 
he  were  ten  thousand  times  more  to  me  tlian  you  have  been-- -shall  ever  be 
sued  for  fidelity  by  me.  Come  or  stay,  as  you  choose  ;  this  is  the  last  let- 
ter 1  shall  ever  trouble  you  with.  Return  this  and  all  my  other  letters — 
my  picture  also,  if  I  am  deserted,  liut,  oh,  (Jaston  !  Gaston  !  have  I 
deserved  this?  Marie. 

That  was  all.  The  woman's  heart  of  the  writer  had  broken 
forth  in  that  last  sentence,  and  she  had  stop[)ed,  fearing  to  trust 
herself.  JMr.  Dantrec  n  J  it  slowly  over,  looking  very  calm 
and  handsome  in  the  leaping  fuelight. 

"  Plucky  little  girl !"  was  his  fmishing comment ;  "it  is  hard 
lines  on  her,  after  all  that's  past  and  gone.  lUit  there's  no  help 
for  it,  Marie.  '  1  have  learned  to  love  anoliier — 1  have  broken 
every  vow — we  have  i)arted  from  each  other — and  your  heart 
is  lonely  now,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  1  wonder  if  I  ever 
had  a  heart  !  1  ih>ubt  it.  I'm  like  Nlinerva,  a  heart  was  left 
out  in  my  make-up;  1  never  was  really  in  love  in  my  life,  and 
1  don't  want  to  be.  Women  are  very  well  as  stepping-stones 
to  fortiuie,  fame,  ambition  ;  but  for  love  in  the  abstract — bah  ! 
But  poor  little  Marie  !  if  1  ever  did  approach  the  spooney,  it 
was  for  her ;  if  1  have  it  in  me  to  care  for  anything  or  anybody 
but  myself,  it  is  for  her." 

And  tiien  Mr.  Dantree  produced  a  little  black  pipe,  loaded 


90 


A  LETTER  FKOM  NEW  ORLEANS. 


\    ! 


to  the  mii/zle,  struck  a  fiisce,  and  fell  hack  again  to  cnjc^yhiin- 
si'lf.  Ho  looked  the  i)iclurc  of  a  hixiuious  Syhaiito,  lounging 
ncghgently  aniont;;  the  ciisliions  hcfore  the  genial  lire. 

"And  1  knowhhe'll  keej)  her  word,"  he  muttered  reflectively. 
"No  b:  ch  of  promise,  no  avenger  on  the  track  in  this  case, 
Claston,  my  boy  ;  all  nice  and  smooth,  and  going  on  velvet. 
That's  a  good  idea  about  sending  back  the  letters  and  jihoto- 
graph.  I'll  act  upon  it  at  once.  A  married  man's  a  fool  who 
keeps  such  souvenirs  of  hif)  bacheloiiiood  loose  about.  And 
Kathie  isn't  the  sort  of  girl  I'itiier  to  stand  that  specie^--  of  non- 
si^nsc — she's  j)roud  as  the  deuce,  as  becomes  the  daugluer  of  an 
old  soldier,  and  as  jealous  as  the  devil  !  " 

Mr.  Dantree  aro  -e,  and  crossing  to  where  his  writing  cnsc  lay, 
imUicked  it,  and  produced  a  package,  neatl;/  lied  up  with  blue 
ribbon.  They  were  letters — only  a  won)an's  letters — in  the 
same  hantl  as  that  of  to-night,  and  in  thv-'ir  n)iilst  a  carte  de 
visitc.  He  took  this  latter  up  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  girl  in  lu-r  fust  )'oulh,  a  darkly  piquante  face,  with 
two  large  eyes  looking  at  )ctu  from  waving  masses  of  dark  hair 
— a  handsome,  iirpassioned  face,  i)roud  and  spirited.  And 
Gaston  IJantree's  i.  rd,  coldly  bright  brown  eyes  grew  almost 
tender  as  he  ga/ed. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  he  said — '*  poor  little  girl !  How  pretty  she 
used  to  look  in  her  misty  v,'i\ito  dresses,  her  laces,  the  creamy 
roses  she  used  to  wear,  her  dusk  cheeks  Hushed,  and  lier  big 
blue  eyes  like  st:irs  !  Poor  little  thing  !  and  she  would  have 
laid  a  princely  fortune  at  my  leet,  with  her  heart  and  hand,  if 
that  old  bloke,  her  grandfather,  hadn't  euchred  her  out  of  it. 
And  1  would  b.ave  been  a  very  gootl  husband,  as  husbands  go, 
to  little  Marie,  which  is  uKjre  than  I'llevi-rbe  to  thisolher  one. 
Ah,  well  !     Sir  transit^  and  all  the  rest  of  it  ! — here  goes  !  " 

He  replaced  the  vignette,  added  the;  last  letter  to  tin;  others, 
did  diem  up  neatly  in  a  sheet  of  white  jiaper,  sealed  the  i»ack- 
age  with  red  wax,  and  wrote  the  address  in  a  fir.n,  clear  hand : 

'*  ItUo.  MMiiK  De  Lansac, 

"Kuede , 

"  New  Orleans,  I^uisiana," 

"  I'll  mail  this  to-morrow,"  Mr.  Danlree  said,  i)utting  it  in  the 
pocket  of  h's  overcr)at  ;  "  and  now  Pll  seek  my  balmy  couch 
and  woo  the  god  of  clumber.  I  dare  say  it  will  be  as  successful 
as  the  rest  of  my  w  )oi  ig." 

Mr.  Dantree  undre'^sed  himself  leisurely,  as  he  did  all  thir.    \ 


THE    THIRD    WARNING. 


91 


and  went  to  bed.  T^iit  sleep  did  not  come  all  at  once  ;  he  lay 
awake,  walcliing  the  leaping  fiiclight  llickering  on  the  wall,  and 
ihinkiiig. 

**  What  it",  after  all  now,  something  were  to  hai)pen,  and  I  were 
to  be  dished  again,  as  i  was  in  the  New  Orleans  alTciir  ?  "  he 
thouLrht.  "  IJy  (leorgc  !  it  was  enough  to  make  a  man  cut  his 
own  throat,  or — old  l)e  Lansac's.  A  milhon  dollars  to  a  dead 
certainty,  —  Marie  sole  heiress,  Marie  dying  for  n)e.  And  then 
he  must  go  and  get  married — confound  him  !  1  can't  think  Sir 
John  Dangerficld  is  dotard  enough  for  tluxt,  but  still  delays  are 
dangerous.  I'll  strike  while  the  iron's  liot.  I'll  make  Katherine 
name  the  day,  to-morrow,  by  Jove.  Once  my  wife,  and  I'm 
safe.  Nothing  can  happen  tiien,  unless — unless — Heavens  and 
earth  !  -unless  Marie  should  appear  upon  the  scene,  as  they 
d)  on  the  stage,  and  dt-nounce  me  !" 

.\v\\  then  Mr.  Dantree  paused  aghast,  and  stared  blankly  at 
the  lire. 

'*  it's  not  in  the  least  likely  though,"  he  continued.  •*  Marie 
is  not  that  sort  c  f  woman.  I  believe,  by  Oeorge  !  if  she  met 
nie  a  week  after  she  gets  the  letters  back  she  would  look  me 
Rtraitfht  between  the  eves  and  cut  me  dead.  No — Marie  never 
will  speak — she  could  go  to  the  scaffold  with  her  head  up  and 
her  big  blue  eyes  flashing  defiance,  and  it's  a  very  lucky  thing  for 
me  she's  that  sort.  Still  it  will  be  a  confoundedly  ugly  thing  if 
she  ever  hears  of  me  again  either  as  Sir  Dantree  Dangerfield  or 
the  heiress  of  Scarswood's  fiance.  She  might  speak  to  save 
Katherine.  Bui  no;  "  and  then  Mr.  Dantree  turned  over  with 
a  yawn  at  last  on  his  pillow,  "who  ever  heard  of  one  woman 
saving  another.  Men  do,  but  women — never  !  I'll  have  the 
weddnig  day  fi.ved  to-morrow,  and  it  shall  be  speedily." 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE    THIIiD    WARNING. 

HE  rarn  passed  with  the  night,  and  a  slight  frost  set  in 
with  the  new  day.     Mr.  Dantree  was  due  at  a  hunting 
party  at.Langton  Brake,  to  be  followed  by  a  ball  at 
Langton  Royals.     He  would  meet  Miss  Dangerfield 
on  his  way  to  cover,  and  she  should  fix  their  wedding  day. 


92 


THE    THIRD    WARNING. 


"A  southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy  sky  iirodaim  it  a  hunting 
niornin^^."  Mr.  Dantrre  huinnicd.  "  He  fore  I  am  throe  hours 
oUlor  1  shall  put  my  fate  to  the  tou(  h,  'to  win  or  lose  it  all.'  T 
wonder  it"  a  baronet's  daughter  coukl  get  \\\^  her  trousseau  \\\ 
three  months?  She  won't  ohject  to  naming  an  early  day,  7 
know  :  she's  in  love  with  mc  beyond  all  redemption,  and  I'm 
in  love  with  her — eight  thousand  a  year." 

Mr.  Dantree  breakfasted,  mounted  "a  red  roan  steed,"  and 
looking  unspeakably  well  in  his  very  becoming  hunting  cos- 
tume, set  off  for  the  meet  at  Langton  Hrake. 

The  baronet's  daughter  was  there  before  him,  surrounded  by 
half  a  do/en  red-coats,  sitting  a  powerful-looking  black  horse 
as  though  it  had  been  an  easy  chair,  and  looking,  as  she  always 
did  on  horseback,  her  best.  lUit  while  she  talked  and  laughed 
with  her  atti'udant  cavaliers,  her  ga/e  kept  ever  impatiently  turn- 
ing in  one  direction,  and  as  (laston  Dantree  gallopetl  up,  a  light 
Hash  of  glad  wiIcouk;  lit  the  clear  eyes. 

'•  Late,  (Gaston  ;  late  again,  I  wonder  if  you  ever  were  or 
will  be  in  time  for  anything  in  your  life.  Any  man  who  would 
pro\e  himst-If  a  laggard  on  such  a  glorious  morning  deserves — 
what  does  he  deserve.  Captain  De  V'ere  ?  " 

•'The  loss  of  Miss  Dangerfield's  favor  .ne  heaviest  loss  I 
know  of.  A  laggard  in  the  lumting  field  Mr.  Dantree  may  be, 
but  he  certainly  has  proven  hinisolf  anything  but  a  laggard  in 
love." 

And  bowing  low  after  this  small  stab,  and  with  a  sarcastic 
curl  of  his  tawny-mustached  mouth,  the  captain  of  the  Plungers 
rode  away,  lb;  held  the  handsonn,',  silver-voiced,  oily-tongMied 
Southerner  in  conlemi)!  and  aversion — most  mi'n  did — without 
exa<  liy  knowing  why.  'Iherc  are  men  whom  men  like,  and 
men  whom  women  like,  and  Mr.  Dantree,  happily  for  himself, 
was  one  of  the  latter. 

A  loud  cry  of  "  there  they  come"  proclaimed  the  arrival  of 
the  hounds.  The  huntsman  as  he  passed  cast  surly  glances  to- 
ward Miss  Dangerfield  and  one  or  two  other  mounted  ladies, 
with  prophetic  visions  of  their  heading  the  fox,  and  being  in  the 
way.  'i'he  hounds  were  put  into  the  gorse,  and  the  pink  coats 
l)egan  to  move  K^\.\\.  of  the  field  into  the  lane — Miss  Dangerfield 
and  her  dark  lover  with  tlu'in. 

A  loud  "Hallo"  rang  shrilly  out,  the  hounds  came  with  a 
rushing  roar  over  a  fence.  " 'I'here  he  is  !"  ciied  a  score  of 
voices,  as  the  fo.x  Hew  over  the  ground,  and  with  a  ringing 
shout  Jvalherine  Dangerfield  flew  along  on  black  llderim,  stead;/ 


THE    ririRD   WARNING. 


liiinting 

I'f  lu)ui"s 

I  all.'      r 

us  scan  in 

ly  (lay,  1 

ami  I'm 

c(l,"  and 
ting  cos- 

indcd  by 

c  alwa^'s 
aiinhctl 
itly  tiini- 
P,  a  light 

■  were  or 
lo  would 
serves — 

St  loss  I 

may  be, 

iggard  ill 

sarcnstic 
I'liniirers 
■loiif^iied 
-without 
like,  and 
himself, 

rrival  of 
mces  to- 
ll ladies, 
ig  in  (he 
ik  coats 
igeifield 

e  with  a 

core   of 

ringing 

I,  stcad)f 


93 


as  a  rook  and  npriglu  as  a  dart.  Her  biilliant  eyes  were  flash- 
ing ncnv' wi;h  the  hunter's  hre— even  (lastop.  Dantree  was  for- 
gotten. The  roan  tlew  along  helter-skelur  besiile  llderim  for 
a  few  nnnutes,  ilu'ii  fell  hopelessly  behind.  Mr.  Dantree  counted 
neither  courage  nor  horsenianshi])  among  his  many  virtues.  On 
and  on  like  the  wind — IKlerim  (lew  the  fences — with  a  tremen- 
dous rush  he  leaped  chasms  and  hedges,  his  dauntless  rider  tak- 
ing everything  before  her.  The  master  of  ilie  hounds  himself 
looked  at  her  in  a  glow  of  admiration — the  black  .Arab  llew 
over  everything,  scorning  to  turn  \it  the  right  or  left,  and  after 
a  brilliant  burst  of  over  an  hour,  the  heiress  of  Scarswood  had 
the  triumph  and  delight  of  being  one  of  the  fortunate  few  in  at 
the  fmi^h — in  time  to  see  the  dead  fox  heUlover  the  huntsman's 
he.ul  with  the  hounils  hanging  expectant  around.  She  laught-d 
— eyes  and  teeth  Hashing  da//.lingly — as  she  received  the  brush 
fiom  die  huntsman,  and  the  innumerable  c(;mi)liments  from  the 
gentli'inen  who  crowded  around  the  heroine  of  the  hour. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  can  ride — about  the  only  thing  1  can  do. 
No,  Mr,  Dantree,  I  do  not  want  a  compliment  from  you,  and  I 
can't  pay  one  either.  Your  roan  balked  shamefully,  and  you  are 
the  last  man  in.  Hut  to  be  late,  as  1  .saitl  before,  on  all  occasions, 
is  your  normal  stale." 

"  iJeing  fnst  in  your  regards  I  can  bear  tiie  rest  with  philoso- 
phy, Miss  Dangerfu.ld.  Fall  back  {\o\w  those  people,  and  rein 
in  that  black  whirlwind  of  yours,  and  ride  back  to  Langton 
Royals  with  me." 

She  looked  at  him  (piickly — some  tone  in  his  voice,  some 
look  in  his  eyes  startled  her.  * 

"(laston,  something  has  happened  !" 

"  Yes — nothing  to  be  alarmed  about,  hovve\'er.  Only  this— 
I  must  go  back  to  New  Orleans." 

"(}aston!" 

It  was  a  sort  of  disir.ayed  cry.  If  he  had  ever  doubted  his 
power  over  her  he  would  have  been  reassured  now.  The  glad 
light  died  out  of  her  face  as  she  turned  to  him. 

"  Go  back  to  New  Orleans  I  Why  should  you  go  back  ?  I 
thought — " 

"  You  thought  I  was  never  to  go  back  any  more.  You  thought 
this  sort  of  pleasant  existence — driving,  hunting,  singing,  and 
being  happy — taking  no  thought,  like  lilies  of  the  field,  etc., 
was  to  go  on  forever.  My  dear  little  simple  Rathie  !  you  seem 
to  forget  that  though  jw/  are  born  to  the  i)urple,  I  am  not.  You 
forget  that  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep.     You  for- 


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Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.     \iW 

(716)872-4503 


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I 


94 


T//E    THIRD   WARNING. 


get  ihat  you  are  engaged  to  a  poor  beggar,  who  earns  his  bread 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  or  his  brains.  You  forget  in  short  that 
I  am  not  the  heiress  of  Scarswood,  with  eight  thousand  ))er 
annum,  or  Captain  De  Vere,  next  heir  to  a  peerage,  but  Gaston 
Dantree,  Bohemian,  hterary  hack — only  too  thankful  if  his 
flimsies  for  the  New  Orleans  journals  pay  for  the  coat  he  wears 
and  the  bed  he  sleeps  on.  You  forget  that,  my  dear,  impetu- 
ous little  girl,  but,  by  Jove,  I  don't  !  " 

"  And  what's  all  that  got  to  do  with  ii  ?  Why  can't  things  go 
on  as  they  are  ?  Why  can't  you  stop  at  Morecambe  until — " 
Miss  Dangerfield  stopped  abruptly. 

"  Until  our  wedding  day — is  that  what  you  mean.  Kathie  ? 
Ah  !  but  you  see  that  seems  such  a  very  indefinite  period. ' 
Mr.  Talbot  was  kind  enough  to  invite  nie  to  run  down  to  his 
place  in  Sussex  for  a  week's  August  fishing,  and  I  was  to  repay 
his  hospitality  by  singing  songs.  August  has  passed,  Octo- 
ber is  here,  and — so  am  I  still.  Anc,  unfortunately,  singing 
is  such  an  unsubstantial  mode  of  payment,  even  the  finest 
tenor  voice  's  apt  to  pall  upon  a  Sussex  Squire,  afier  three 
months'  incessant  listening  to  it.  1  had  a  letter  last  night 
from  New  Orleans — not  a  pleasant  letter — and  it  comes  to  one 
of  two  things  now,  either  to  go  back  to  Louisiana  and  resume 
my  quill  driving,  or—"  Mr.  Dantree  paused  and  looked  at  her 
— "^r,"  he  repeated  with  that  smile  of  his,  the  baronet's  roman- 
tic daughter  thought  the  most  beautiful  on  earth — "  or  Kathie." 

"  Yes,  Gaston  ?  " 

"  Or  you  must  marry  me  out  of  hand.  Do  you  hear,  Kathie  ? 
• — take  mci  for  better  or  worse,  and  supi)ort  nie  afterward. 
That's  what  it  comes  to  in  plain  English.  One  may  be  in  love 
ever  so  deeply,  but  one  must  have  three  meals  per  diem  and 
pay  the  tailor  and  boot-maker.  I  have  just  money  enougli  to 
last  precisely  two  months  and  a  half — I've  been  totting  it  up. 
After  that  the  work-house  stares  me  in  the  face.  I'll  defy  the 
minions  of  the  newspaper,  Kathie,  if  you  say  so,  and  I'll  go  to 
the  Castleford  Arms  and  wait  until  the  happy  day  comes,  that 
makes  you  all  my  own.  If  not — why  then — "  Mr.  Dantree 
l)aused  and  produced  his  cigar-case.  "You'll  permit  me,  I 
know,  Katiiie  ?  You're  awfully  sensible  on  the  subject  of 
cigars,  and  I've  been  thinking  so  deeply  ever  since  I  got  that 
confounded  letter,  that  my  brain — such  as  it  is — is  dazed.  I 
need  a  smoke  to  su[)port  me  under  all  this." 

Then  there  was  silence,  while  they  rode  on  slowly  in  the 
rear  of  the  hunting  [)arty — Mr.  Dantree  philosophically  i)uffing 


THE   THIRD   WARNING. 


95 


bread 
It  that 
k1  per 
iaston 
if  his 
wears 
npetu- 


finest 
three 


his  cigar,  and  Katherine,  her  cheeks  flashed  with  veiy  un- 
wonted color,  and  lips  sealed  with  slill  more  unwonted  silence. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  the  turrets  and  peaked  gables  of  Langton 
Royals  bore  in  sight,  "I  don't  want  to  be  importunate,  my 
dear,  but  suspense  isn't  a  pleasant  thing.  When  a  man  is 
under  sentence,  the  sooner  he  hears  his  doom  and  knows  the 
worst,  the  better.  Am  I  to  go  to  New  Orleans,  to  risk  all  that 
may  come  to  part  us  forever,  or  am  I  to — " 

'"'  Stay,  Gaston  !  " 

Mr.  Dantree  drew  a  long  breath  of  great  relief.  For  one  mo- 
ment he  had  doubted — for  one  agonizing  moment  the  eight  thou- 
sand a  year  seemed  trembling  m  the  balance. 

"My  loyal  little  girl !  I  shall  thank  you  for  this  when  two 
score  people  are  not  looking  on.  I  am  to  stay  and  send  the 
New  Orleans  editors  au  diable,  and  the  wodding  day  will  be — 
when,  Kathie  ?  Afy  princely  fortune  will  keep  me  about  two 
months,  and  allow  me  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  I  suppose,  to  be 
made  happy  in.     When,  Kathie — when — when — when  ?  " 

"Gaston,  I  don't  know.  It  is  so  horribly  sudden.  Good 
Heavens  !  only  two  months!     One  can't  prepare." 

"  Oh  yes,  one  can.  Import  the  trousseau  from  London  or 
Paris.  They'll  send  you  on  the  thousand  and  one  things  brides 
seem  to  require  in  a  week.  Be  rational,  Kathie  ;  that  objec- 
tion is  overruled.     Name  the  next." 

"  It  is  easily  named.     Papa  will  never  consent." 

"  Ah,  now  you  have  come  to  the  hitch  in  the  matter.  I  think 
it  very  likely  die  ancient  warrior  may  put  in  his  veto.  But  it 
is  for  you  to  overrule  that.  You're  not  the  bright,  clever  little 
darling  I  give  you  credit  for  if  you  can't  do  it  easily.  In  the 
bright  lexicon  of  youth,  you  know,  there's  no  such  word  as  fail. 
You  can  do  it,  and  you've  got  to  do  it  yourself,  by  Jove!  I 
faced  the  music  once,  and  I'd  rather  keep  my  countenance 
averted  from  the  melody  for  the  future.  He  does  the  heavy 
father  to  perfection,  and  I  never  had  a  taste  for  private  theatricals. 
Suppose  I  spare  your  blushes,  and  fix  the 'day  myself?  Sup- 
])ose  I  select  New  Year's  eve  ?  We  couldn't  wind  up  the  old 
year  in  a  jollier  manner  than  by  being  married,  and  enjoying 
ourselves  in  Paris  for  the  rest  of  the  winter.  Come,  now,  my 
darling,  d  )!i't  object.  Bring  the  noble  baronet  round  to  reason, 
and  make  your  Gaston  the  hapi)iest  man  on  this  reeling  globe 
on  New  Year's  eve.  Quick — oh,  hang  him!  Here  co'.iies 
De  Vere.     Quick,  Kathie  ;  yes  or  no  ?  " 

"Yes." 


:     4 


ImRi 


7    'i 


'ii 
if 


I ' 


1* 


96 


r/TiS    T///J?D   IVARNiNG. 


She  just  had  thne  to  flutter  forth  that  one  little  word,  when 
the  captain  of  the  Plungers  I^urple  rode  up  on  his  gray  charger 
to  solicit  the  second  v/altz  at  the  ball  that  night. 

"  I  used  to  write  my  name  first  on  your  list,  Miss  Danger- 
field,"  the  captain  said,  plaintively,  "  but  all  that's  over  now," 
with  a  glance  at  Dantree  ;  "  and  I  must  be  resigned  to  my  fate 
of  second  fiddle.  'Twas  ever  thus,  etc.  I  trust  hunting  in  this 
damp  air  has  not  impaired  your  voice  for  'The  Wine  Cup  is 
Sparkling,'  Mr.  Dantree  ?  " 

They  rode  on  to  Langton  Royals  together — Katherine  unu- 
sually silent.  She  glanced  furtively  now  and  then  at  her  two 
cavaliers.  How  much  the  handsomer  her  lover  was.  Such 
easy,  negligent  grace  of  manner ;   how  well  he   talked  ;    how 


well  he 


sang ; 


what  a  paragon  he  was  among  men.     What  a 


contrast  Randolf  Cromie  Algernon  De  Vere,  riding  beside  him, 
was,  with  his  heavy,  florid,  British  complexion,  his  ginger 
whiskers,  his  sleepy,  blue  eyes,  and  his  English  army  drawl. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  dead  peer,  and  the  brotlier  of  a  live  one  ; 
but  his  nose  was  a  pug,  and  his  hands  and  feet  were  large,  and 
he  had  never  thought,  or  said,  or  done  a  clever  thing  in  his  life. 

"  And  papa  wanted  me  to  marry  him  / "  Miss  Dangerfield 
thought,  with  unutterable  contempt ;  "  after  seeing  Gaston,  too  ! 
How  impatient  he  is  to  have  our  wedding  day  fixed — how  he 
seems  to  dread  losing  me.  And  i^eople  call  him  mercenary 
and  a  fortune-hunter.  I  shall  speak  to  papa  to-morrow,  and 
he  shall  consent." 

The  hunting  party  dined  at  Langton  Royals.  Miss  Danger- 
field's  French  maid  had  come  over  from  Scarswood  with  her 
young  lady's  ball  toilet,  and  when  Mr.  Dantree  entered  the 
brilliantly  lighted  ball-room  and  took  a  critical  survey  of  his 
afiianced  v/ife,  he  was  forced  to  confess  that  great  happiness 
made  the  dark,  sallow  heiress  of  Scarswood  very  nearly  hand- 
some. She  Avore — was  she  not  a  heroine  and  a  bride  elect  ? — 
a  floating  filmy  robe  of  misty  white,  a  crown  of  dark-green  ivy 
leaves  on  her  bright  chestnut  floating  hair — -'all  atwinkle  with  dia- 
mond dewdrops — her  white  shoulders  rose  exquisitely  out  of  the 
foamy  lace — her  great,  brilliant  eyes  had  a  streaming  light,  a 
faint  flush  kindled  her  dusk  cheeks. 

"Have  you  noticed  the  litde  Dangerfield,  Talbot ? "  Cap- 
tain De  Vere  remarked  to  his  friend,  the  Squire  of  Morecambc. 
"She's  in  great  feather  to-night,  growing  positively  good  look- 
ing, you  know.  See  how  she  smiles  on  that  shrewd  litde  fellow, 
Dantree.     Why  can't  we  all  be  born  with  (rrecian  profile^  and 


^i 


THE    THIRD   WARNING. 


97 


danger- 
no  w," 

iiy  fate 
in  this 

Cup  is 


tenor  voices  ?  Seems  a  pity  too  she  should  be  thrown  away 
on  a  cad  Uke  that — such  a  trump  of  a  girl  as  she  is,  and  such  a 
waltzer.  Look  at  her  now  floating  away  with- him.  Clearest 
case  of  spoons  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

Captain  De  Vere  leaned  against  a  pillar,  pulled  his  leonine 
mustache,  and  watched  Miss  Dangerfield  and  her  lover  circling 
down  the  long  room  with  gloomy  eyes.  It  would  have  been 
contrary  to  all  the  principles  of  his  life  to  fall  in  love — it  was 
the  proud  boast  of  the  Plungers  that  they  never  were  guilty  of 
that  weakness,  but  still — oh,  hang  it  all !  Why  couldn't  that 
fellow  keep  his  confoundedly  handsome  face  and  diabolically 
musical  voice  for  transatlantic  heiresses,  and  not  come  poach- 
ing on  British  manors?  Why  couldn't  he  marry  a  Yankee 
wife,  who  talked  through  her  nose,  and  whose  father  had 
amassed  a  fortune  selling  groceries,  and  not  mix  the  best  blood 
in  Sussex  with  the  plebeian  puddle  in  his  veins  ?  Why 
couldn't  she  keep  true  to  her  order?  why  didn't  Sir  John 
kick  the  fellow  downstairs  when  he  had  the  audacity  to  demand 
his  daughter's  hand  ?  Sir  John,  the  proudest  old  martinet  in  the 
army.  A  fine  precedent  to  be  set  to  the  daughters  of  the 
county  gentry — the  son  of  a  Yankee  butcher  or  blacksmith 
lording  it  in  Scarswood  and  taking  his  place  among  the  patri- 
cians of  Sussex,  with  the  best  blood  in  England  in  their  veins, 
and  an  ancestry  that  ran  back  to  the  conquest  and  Norman 
William, 

"  And  the  cad's  a  scoundrel,  besides,"  the  captain  thought, 
glowering  with  human  ferocity  ;  "vain  as  a  woman  of  his  pretty 
face  and  voice,  with  no  more  affection  for  that  sentimen- 
tal, hero-worshiping  little  girl  of  seventeen  than  /  have — not 
half  so  much,  by  George  !  She'll  marry  him  and  come  to  grief 
— the  worst  sort — mark  my  words  !  " 

The  first  waltz  ended,  the  captain's  turn  came.  The  unusual 
exertion  of  thinking  had  fatigued  the  young  officer's  intellect ; 
the  physical  exertion  of  waltzing  with  Miss  Dangerfield  would 
counteract  it.  And-Miss  Dangerfield  was  such  a  capital  dancer, 
such  a  jolly  little  girl  every  way  you  took  her  !  How  she 
laughed,  how  she  talked,  what  a  clear,  sweet,  fresh,  young 
voice  she  had,  how  bright  v/ere  her  eyes,  how  luxurious  her 
brown,  waving  hair, — not  pretty,  you  know,  like  half  the  other 
girls  in  the  room,  witii  wax-work  faces  and  china-blue  eyes,  but 
twice  as  attractive  as  the  prettiest  of  them — one  of  those  girls 
whom  men  look  after  on  the  street,  and  ask  their  names— 
a  siren  with  a  sallow  complexion  and  eyes  of  starry  luster. 
6 


9$ 


THE    THIRD  WARNING. 


}  !  ' 


, ' ■'  '^ 


i  A 


"  She's  got  brains,  and  the  rest  liave  beauty — I  suppose 
that's  about  it — and  beauty  and  brains  never  travel  in  company. 
She  is  far  the  cleverest  little  girl  of  my  acquaintance,  and,  if 
you  notice,  it's  always  your  clever  women  who  marry  good- 
iooking  fools.  Egad  !  I  wish  I  had  pro|)osed  for  her  myself. 
Marriage  is  an  institution  I'rn  opposed  to  on  jirinciple. 
*  Britons  never  shall  be  slaves,'  and  so  forth — and  what's  your 
married  man  but  the  most  abject  of  slaves  ?  1  believe  I've  been 
in  love  with  her  all  along  and  never  knew  it.  *  How  blessings 
brighten  as  they  take  their  llight ! '  When  I  could  have  had 
her  I  didn't  want  her ;  when  J  can't  have  her,  I  do." 

"Oh!"  Katherine  sighed,  in  ecstasy,  "that  was  a  delicious 
waltz  !  I  was  born  to  be  a  ballet-dancer,  I  believe — 1  could 
keep  on  forever.  Captain  De  Vere,  you're  the  first  heavy 
dragoon  I  ever  knew  who  didn't  disgrace  himself  and  his  part- 
ner when  he  attempted  round  dances.  Is  that  Mr.  Dantree 
singing  in  the  music-room  ?  Yes,  it  is  ;  and  you  have  a  soul 
attuned  to  the  magic  of  sweet  sounds — don't  say  no  ;  I'm  sure 
you  have — so  have  I ;  come  !  " 

Yes,  Mr.  Dantree  was  singing ;  that  is  what  he  was  there 
for ;  his  voice  for  the  i^ast  ten  years  had  been  the  open 
sesame  that  threw  wide  the  most  aristocratic  portals,  where  else 
he  had  never  set  foot.  A  little  group  of  music  lovers  were  around 
him,  drinking  in  the  melody  of  that  most  charming  voice.  Mr. 
Dantree  was  in  his  element — he  always  was  when  surrounded 
b>  an  admiring  crowd.  This  song  was  a  Tyrolean  warble,  and 
the  singer  looked  more  like  an  angel  than  ever,  in  a  white 
waistcoat  and  tail  coat. 

"May  Old'  Nick  Hy  away  with  him  !"  growled  Captain  De 
Vere,  inwardly,  "  and  his  classic  countenance,-  and  Mario  voice ! 
What  a  blessing  to  society  if  he  became  a  victim  to  small-pox 
and  chronic  bronchitis !  It's  no  wonder,  after  all,  that  little 
Kathie,  a  beauty-worshiper  by  nature,  is  infatuated.  Well,  my 
man,  what  is  it  ?" 

For  a  six-foot  specter,  in  plush  and  'knee-breeches,  had 
appeared  suddenly,  and  stood  bowing  before  them. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  capiing — it's  Miss  Dangerfield's  maid 
as  wishes  to  speak  to  Miss  Dangerfield  for  a  hinstant,  hif 
hagreeable." 

"  Ninon  !  "  said  Katherine — "what  does  she  want? — where 
is  she  ?  Oh,  I  see  her  I  Excuse  me  a  moment,  Captain  De 
Vere." 


n 


i 


TffE   THIRD   WARN'IN'G. 


99 


The  French  maid  was  standing  just  outside  the  door  of  the 
music  room,  holding  a  small  white  parcel  in  her  hand. 

"  Well,  child,"  her  mistress  said,  im[)atiently — the  little  French 
girl  was  hve  years  her  senior — "  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"It's  this  packet,  mademoiselle;  John  Thomas  found  it  on 
the  floor  of  the  gentleman's  cloak  room,  and  he  thinks  it  be- 
longs to  Mr.  Dantree." 

"  Indeed  1     And  why  does  John  Thomas  think  so  ?  " 

"  Because,  mademoiselle,  it  is  addressed  to  New  Orleans. 
Will  mademoiselle  please  to  take  it  and  look  ?  " 

Katherine  took  the  little  white  package  and  looked  at  the 
address.     Yes,  beyond  doubt,  it  was  Gaston's  hand. 

«« Mile.  Marie  De  Lansac, 

"Ruede , 

"New  Orleans." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  The  girl  stood  expectant — 
the  young  lady  stood  holding  the  package  in  her  hand,  looking 
strangely  at  the  address,  it  was  Gaston's  writing,  no  doubt 
at  all  about  that  ;  and  who  was  '*  Mile.  Marie  De  Lansac,"  of 
New  Orleans,  and  what  did  this  package  contain  ?  Letters, 
surely — and  this  hard,  cardlike  substance,  a  photogra[)h  no 
doubt.  Mr.  Dantree  had  told  her  his  whole  history  as  she  sup- 
posed, but  no  chapter  headed-  "Marie  De  Lansac"  had  ap- 
peared. And  as  Katherine  stood  and  looked,  her  lips  set  them- 
selves in  a  rigid  line,  and  a  light  not  usually  there,  nor  pleas- 
ant to  see,  came  into  her  gray  eyes — the  green  light  of  jealousy. 

"  This  package  belongs  to  Mr.  Dantree,  Ninon  ;  John  Thomas 
was  quite  right.  Here,  tell  him  to — or  no,"  abruptly,  "I'll 
give  it  to  Mr.  Dantree  myself" 

The  package  was  small,  her  hand  closed  firmly  over  it,  as 
she  walked  back  to  the  music  room.  Mr.  Dantree  had  just 
finished  his  Tyrolean  chorus,  and  was  smiling  and  graciously 
receiving  compliments.  He  made  his  way  to  Katherine's  side 
and  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  as  one  who  had  the  right. 
■  "My  dear  child,"  he  said,  "what  has  happened  now? 
why,  oh  why,  that  face  of  owl-like  solemnity  I  What's  gone 
wrong  ?  " 

The  large,  crystal-clear,  honest  gray  eyes  were  fixed  on  his 
face,  keenly. 

"Yes,  my  love,"  he  said,  "  what  is  it?" 

"  Gaston  ! "  abruptly  and  vith  energy,  "  did  you  ever  tell  a 
lie?" 


1-^^ ' 


lOO 


THE    THIRD   WARNING. 


"  Hundieds,  my  darling,"  responded  Mr.  Dantree,  with 
proni[)litiide  ;  "thousands,  millions,  and  likely  to  do  so  again. 
What  an  absurd  question  !  Did  I  ever  tell  a  lie?  It  sounds 
like  the  catechism.  As  if  any  man  or  woman  lived  who  duhii 
tell  lies  I " 

*'  Speak  for  yourself,"  the  girl  said,  coldly  ;  "  /  don't  and  I 
can't  conceive  of  any  man  or  woman  of  honor  doing  so.  You 
see  Captain  De  Vera  there?" 

"  I'm  thankful  to  say  1  do  not  at  this  moment — military 
puppy  ! " 

*'  Military  puppy  he  may  be — falsehood-teller,  I  know  he  is 
not  ;  he  is  incapable  of  falsehood,  dishonor,  or  deceit." 

"  i.ike  the  hero  of  a  woman's  novel,  in  short,"  sneered  Gas- 
ton Dantree,  "  without  fear  and  without  rejiroach.  My  dear 
child,  men  and  women  who  never  tell  lies  exist  in  books  'written 
with  a  purpose,'  and  nowhere  else.  But  what  are  you  driving 
at,  my  severe  little  counsel  for  the  prosecution  ?  Let's  have  it 
without  further  preface." 

"You  shall,  Mr.  Dantree.      Who  is  Marie  De  Lansac?" 

Mr.  Dantree  was  past-master  of  the  polite  art  of  dissimula- 
tion ;  no  young  duke  born  to  the  strnwberry-leaf  coronet  could 
be  more  unaffectedly /wz/^V/fl-A?///  than  he.  His  handsome  olive 
face  was  a  mask  that  never  betrayed  him.  And  now,  with  a 
start  so  slight  as  to  be  scarcely-perceptible,  with  so  faint  a  pal- 
ing of  the  dark  face  that  she  failed  to  see  it,  he  turned  to  her, 
calm  and  cool  as  ever. 

"  Marie  De  Lansac  ?  Well,  I  know  a  young  lady  of  that 
name  in  New  Orleans.  Who  is  she,  you  ask  ?  She's  grand- 
daughter of  a  French  gentleman  of  that  city,  and  I  gave  her 
singing  lessons  once  upon  a  time.  My  dear  little  Kathie,  doiit 
annihilate  me  with  those  flashing  gray  eyes  of  yours.  There 
isn't  any  harm  in  that,  is  there  ?  There's  no  need  of  the  green- 
eyed  monster  showing  bis  obnoxious  claws." 

He  met  her  suspicious  gaze  full,  and  di.  covered  for  the  first 
time  what  an  intensely  jsroud  and  jealous  nature  he  had  to  deal 
with.  He  was  chill  with  undefined  fear,  but  he  smiled  down 
in  her  face  now  with  eyes  as  clear  and  innocent  as  the  eyes  of 
a  child. 

"  Is  this  all?"  she  asked,  slowly ;  "or  is  it  only  one  of  the 
many  lies  you  find  it  so  necessary  to  tell  ?" 

**  On  my  honor,  no  ;  it  is  the  truth  ;  as  if  I  could  speak  any- 
thing else  to  you.  But  how,  in  Heaven's  name,  Kathie,  did 
you  ever  hear  of  Marie  De  Lansac  ?  " 


THE    THIRD   WARNING. 


lOI 


She  did  not  rejily ;  she  still  held  the  package;  she  still  looked 
at  him  distrustfully. 

"  You  gave  her  singing  lessons,  this  Miss  De  Lansac  ? " 
slowly.     "  She  is  young,  1  suppose  ?  " 

"She  is." 

"  Handsome,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"Well,  yes,  she  is  handsome — not  the  style  /  admire, 
though." 

"  Never  mind  your  style — you  admire  nothing  but  plain 
young  women  with  sallow  skins  and  irregular  features — that  is 
understood.  Mr.  Dantree,  do  you  correspond  with  this  young 
lady?" 

"  Certainly  not.     Katherine,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

The  careless  look  had  left  his  face,  the  pallor  had  deepened. 
Who  had  been  talking  to  her — what  had  she  found  out  ?  Good 
Heavens  !  to  have  eight  thousand  a  year  quivering  in  the  bal- 
ance like  this. 

"\Vhat  I  mean  is  this,  Mr.  Dantree.  This  is  your  writing, 
I  believe,  and  1  infer  you  are  returning  Miss  De  Lansac' s  let- 
ters and  picture.  This  packet  fell  out  of  your  coat-pocket  in 
the  cloak-room.  You  never  corresponded  with  Miss  De  Lan- 
sac— you  only  gave  her  singing  lessons?  That  will  do,  Mr. 
Dantree — don't  tell  any  more  falsehoods  than  you  can  help." 

She  placed  the  packet  in  his  hand.  He  had  never  thought 
of  that.  His  face  changed  as  she  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 
In  spite  of  the  admirable  training  of  his  life  he  stood  before  her 
dumb — condemned  out  of  his  own  mouth. 

The  steady,  strong  gray  eyes  never  left  his  face — her  own 
was  quite  colorless  now. 

"Not  one  word,"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  whisper;  "and  look 
at  him.  It  is  true,  then — all  they  have  said.  He  is  false — 
false ! " 

"  I  am  not  false  I"  Mr.  Dantree  retorted,  angrily.  "  Don't 
be  so  ready  to  condemn  unheard.  If  you  will  do  me  the  honor 
to  listen,  1  can  explain." 

She  laughed  contemptuously. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  Mr.  Dantree  !  You  could  explain  black 
was  white  if  one  listened  to  you  long  enough.  I'm  afraid  I 
have  listened  to  you  too  long  already.  How  many  of  the  mil- 
lion lies  you  are  in  the  habit  of  telling  have  you  told  me  ?  " 

"  Not  one — not  the  shadow  of  one  !  For  shame,  Kathe- 
rine !  to  taunt  me  with  idle  words  spoken  in  jest.  I  have  told 
you  the  truth  concerning  Miss  De  Lansac — the  simple  truth — 


102 


THE    THIRD  WARNING. 


^1 


(3:    i 


10  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  gave  her  music  lessons — I  ncvci 
cared  for  lier — no,  Kai'aerine,  not  one  jot — but  she — that  is — 
she — (jh,  it  is  ciuile  impossiljle  to  explain  !" 

"  She  fell  in  love  with  you  !  is  that  what  your  modesty  will 
not  i)erinit  you  to  sa}',  Mr.  Dantree  ?  She  fell  in  love — this 
poor  Miss  De  Lansac — with  her  handsome  singing-master, 
whether  he  would  or  no?" 

"  Yes,  then  ! "  Gaston  Dantree  said,  folding  his  arms  and 
looking  at  her  with  sulky  defiance,  "since  you  make  me  say  it. 
Think  me  a  coxcomb,  a  puppy,  if  you  will,  but  she  did  fall  ir 
love  with  me,  and  she  did  write  to  me,  since  1  left  New  Orleans 
1  never  answered  those  letters.  1  told  you  the  truth  whe)i  1 
said  1  did  not  correspond  with  her.  Last  night  1  came  across 
Ihem  by  chance,  and  as  your  plighted  husband  1  felt  I  had  no 
right  even  to  keep  them  longer.  I  made  them  up  as  you  see, 
to  return  to  her,  feeling  sure  that  after  tJiat^  she  would  never 
address  me  again.  1  never  told  you  of  her — why  shoidd  1  i 
She  v/as  simply  nothing  to  me,  and  to  tell  you  that  a  young  lad) 
of  New  Orleans  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  wrote  me  letteis, 
would  not  be  very  creditable  to  nie^ 

And  then  Mr.  Dantree  paused — still  standing  with  folded 
arms — posing  beautit'ully  for  a  model  of  wounded  pride. 

She  drew  a  long  breath. 

"And  this  is  all?"  slie  said,  slowly. 

"All,  Miss  Dangerficld — on  my  sacred  honor!" 

"  If  I  could  only  think  so  !     If  I  only  dared  believe  yon  !  " 

"You  are  comi)limentary,  Katherine  !  When  you  doubt  ni) 
word  like  this  it  is  high  time  for  us  to  part." 

He  knew  her  well — how  to  stab  most  surely. 

"  Part  I "  her  sensitive  lips  quivered.  "  How  lightly  he  talks 
of  parting  !  Gaston  !'  you  see — J  love  you  wholly — J  trust  you 
entirely.  You  are  so  dear  to  me,  that  the  bare  thought  of  any 
other  having  a  claim  on  you,  be  it  ever  so  light,  is  unendurable. 
AVill  you  swear  to  me  that  this  is  true  ?  " 

He  lifted  his  arm — it  gave  the  oath  proper  stage  effect. 

"  By  all  1  hold  sacred,  I  swear  it,  Katherine  I" 

It  was  not  a  very  binding  oath — there  was  nothing  on  the 
earth  below,  or  the  sky  above,  that  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  held 
sacred.  But  it  is  easy  to  believe  what  we  most  want  to  believe. 
As  the  old  Latin  saw  has  it,  "  The  quarreling  of  lovers  was  the 
renewing  of  love."  Mr.  Dantree  and  Miss  Dangerficld  kept 
devotedly  together  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  and  peace  smiled 
again,  but  the  "cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand"  had  risen, 


THE    THIRD   WARNING. 


103 


i 


^ 


% 


that  was  speedily  to  dnrkon  all  tlio  sky.  Kalhcrinc's  perfect 
trust  was  gone — gone  forever.  "  Had  he  told  iier  the  truth,  or 
was  it  all  a  tissue  of  falsehoods?  Had  another  woman  a  claim 
upon  him,  and  was  it  her  fortune  he  loved,  as  everybody  said — • 
not  herself?" 

"  And,  powers  above  I  "  thought  Mr.  Dantree  ;  *'  what  am  I 
to  do  with  a  jealous,  exacting  wife  ?  What  a  savage  look  there 
was  in  her  eyes  for  one  moment ;  the  Dangerfields  were  ever 
a  bitter,  bad  race.  A  game  where  two  women  claim  one 
man  must  be  a  losing  game  for  the  man  in  the  end.  I  be\;in 
to  see  that." 

At  five  in  the  morning  the  ball  at  Langton  Royals  broke  up. 
Miss  Dangerfield  ,vas  driven  home  through  the  cold  blackness 
that  precedes  the  dawn,  shivering  in  her  furred  wraps.  Sh*^ 
toiled  slowly  and  wearily  upstairs.  She  had  danced  a  great: 
deal,  and  was  tired  to  death.  She  had  been  in  wild  spirits 
the  tTrst  half  the  night,  now  the  reaction  had  come,  and  she 
looked  haggard  and  hollow-eyed,  as  she  ascended  to  her 
room. 

It  was  all  bright  in  that  sanctuary  of  maidenhood.  A  genial 
fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  her  little,  white  bed,  with  its  lace  and 
silken  draperies  and  plump,  white  pillows  looked  temptingly 
cosey.  ,A  softly  cushioned  slee[)y  hollow  of  an  easy  chair  was 
drawn  up  before  the  fire.  Katherine  iiung  herself  into  it  with 
a  tired  sigh. 

"It  is  good  to  be  home,"  she  said.  ''Take  off  these  tire- 
some things,  Ninon — quick — and  go." 

The  deft-fingered  French  girl  obeyed.  The  floating,  brown 
hair  was  brushed  and  bound  for  the  \)illow,  the  lace  and  tulle, 
the  silk  and  diamond  s[)rays  were  removed,  and  her  night-robe 
donned,  and  Katherine  thrust  her  feet  in  slippers,  and  drew  her 
chair  closer  to  the  fire. 

"Anything  more,  mademoiselle  ?" 

*'  Nothing,  Ninon  ;  you  may  go." 

Tlie  maid  went,  and  the  heiress  was  alone.  She  felt  tired  and 
sleepy  and  out  of  sorts,  but  still  she  did  not  go  to  bed.  She  lay 
back  in  her  chair  and  listened  to  the  bleak  morning  wind  howl- 
ing through  the  trees  of  the  park,  with  closed,  tired  eyes. 

"  Marie  De  I.ansac  I  Marie  De  Lansac  ! "  She  seemed  to 
hear  that  name  in  the  wailing  of  the  wind,  in  the  ticking  of  the 
little  Swiss  clock,  in  the  light  fall  of  the  cinders,  and,  with  it 
ringing  still  in  her  ears,  she  dropped  asleep. 

And,  sleeping,  she  dreamed.     She  was  floating  somewhere 


i  I 


,1       .i 


V 


I  i     ■' 


.-I 


104 


BEFORE   THE   WEDDING. 


down  a  warm,  golden  river,  overhead  a  sunlit,  rosy  sky,  all  the 
air  quivering  widi  nuisic.  And  as  she  lloatcd  on  and  on  in  a 
delicious  trance  slu'  saw  the  goldon  sky  blacken,  she  heard  the 
winds  rise,  and  the  river  darken  and  heave.  'Ihe  music  changed 
to  the  wild  song  of  a  siren,  luring  her  on  to  the  black  depths 
below.  Down,  down  she  felt  herself  sinking,  the  cold  waters 
closing  over  her  head.  She  looked  up  in  her  death  agony, 
and  saw  her  lover  standing  safe  on  the  shore  and  smiling  at 
her  throes.     She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him. 

**  Help,  (laston,  help  !  "  she  strove  to  cry,  but  the  rising 
waters  drowned  her  voice,  and  the  shrill  wind  bore  them  away. 
The  siren  song  giew  louder.  She  could  hear  the  words,  "  False 
as  fair!  false  as  fiiir  1"  And  still  the  waters  rose.  The  white 
arms  wreathed  round  her  lover — standing  smiling  there — a 
beautiful,  deriding  face  mocked  her  over  his  shoulder. 

"  I  am  Marie  L)e  J^ansac,"  said  the  taunting  voice,  "and  he 
is  mine." 

Then  the  bitter  waters  of  death  closed  over  her  head,  and 
with  a  gasping  cry  she  started  up  awake — the  fatal  words  yet 
ringing  in  her  ears,  "  False  as  fair  1  false  as  fair  !  " 

The  chill,  gray  light  of  the  October  dawn  filled  the  room, 
the  fire  had  died  out  black  on  the  hearth,  and  she  was  cramped 
and  cold.  Even  in  her  drean)s  that  warning  came  to  her ! 
She  drew  out  her  watch  and  looked  at  the  hour.  Only  seven, 
but  Katherine  Dangerfield  slept  no  more. 


CHAPTER  X. 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING. 


ARRIED  on  New  Year's  Eve  !  Married  on  New 
Year's  Eve,  Katherine  !  Do  1  hear  you  aright  ?  Is 
it  possible  you  really  mean  this  ?  " 

Sir  John  Dangerlield,  seated  in  dressing-gown  and 
sli|)pers  before  the  study  fire,  laid  down  his  Times,  and 
blankly  asked  this  question.  His  daughter  stood  behind  his 
chair,  keeping  her  face  steadily  averted. 

*'  Let  me  look  at  you,  child — come  here.     Let  me  see  if 
this  is  my  little  Kathie  who  sang  her  doll  to  sleep  yesterday, 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


105 


Is 


and  who  comes  to  nic  now  and  asks  to  be  married  on  Ne\V 
Year's  Day.    Ah,  you  cannot — you  do  not  mean  it  after  all." 

**  Pai)a,  I  do,"  Katherine  cried,  desperately,  feeling  again 
what  a  cruel  thing  it  hud  been  of  (laston  to  subject  her  to  this 
ordeal;  "at  least  1  don't,  but  he — that  is — oh,  papa,  I  have 
explained  already." 

"  You  have  repeated  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree's  plausible  pre- 
texts, of  which  1  don't  believe  one  word.  He  dared  not 
face  me  again ;  he  orderetl  you  to  come  to  nie  and  obtain 
my  consent  to  your  marriage  on  New  Year's  Eve.  Coward  I 
craven  coward  I " 

"Papa,  don't.  You  misjudge  him — he  is  no  coward — even 
you  have  no  right  to  call  him  so.  Oh,  papa,  how  can  you 
be  so  unkind  to  him,  to  me.  You  were  so  harsh  to  him 
when  he  spoke  to  you  before,  and  you  knew  he  would  not, 
could  not  retort  in  kind.  You  wouldn't  like  it  yourself — to 
sit  still  and  be  abused.  You  must  not  call  Gaston  such  hard 
names.     Even  from  you  I  cannot  bear  it." 

]Jut  in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  even  while  she  fought  des- 
perately for  her  absent  lover,  she  felt  it  to  be  true,  He  ivas  a 
coward. 

"Hear  her,"  the  baronet  said,  with  suppressed  intensity; 
"  hear  her  take  his  part  against  vie — this  man  whom  she  has 
not  known  two  months.  Well,  well,  it  is  the  reward  the  old 
always  receive  from  the  young." 

Two  white  arms  clasped  his  neck,  two  impetuous  lips  stooped 
down  and  kissed  him. 

"  Papa,  darling,  is  it  generous  of  you  to  say  this  ?  You 
know  I  love  you  dearly,  dearly ;  but,  i)ai)a,  I  love  him  too. 
I  can't  help  it ;  1  don't  know  why  ;  I  only  know  I  do  with  all 
my  heart." 

He  looked  at  her  tenderly — the  hard  bitterness  of  his  mouth 
relaxing  into  a  smile,  half-sad,  half-cynical. 

"  My  little  one,"  he  said,  "  my  little  one,  you  don't  know 
why.  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  A  little  for  his  dark  eyes,  a  little  for 
his  silken  hair,  a  little  for  his  seductive  voice  and  sugary  words, 
and  a  great  deal — oh,  my  romantic  Kathie — for  your  own 
poetical  imagination.  If  you  saw  Gaston  Dantree  below  the 
surface  for  an  hour  you  would  scorn  him  your  life  long.  But 
you  take  this  good-looking  Lousianian  at  his  own  valuation, 
and  invest  him  with  a  halo  of  nobility  all  your  c  i,  and  set 
him  up  and  worship  him.  My  daughter,  take  care,  take  care. 
Your  god  will  crumble  to  clay  before  your  eyes ;  and  what  is 
6« 


!l 


;  r  ■   ,v 


io6 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


lefc  then  ?  Believe  me,  little  Kathie,  there  is  more  needed  to 
make  a  wife  happy  than  long  lashes  and  a  musical  voice." 

Katheiine  looked  up  and  met  her  father's  eyes  full  for  the 
first  time,  her  lips  compressed  into  a  resolute  line.  An  hour 
ago  she  had  seemed  to  him  a  wayward  little  girl — he  knew  now, 
for  the  lirst  time,  he  had  a  woman  to  deal  with — a  woman  in 
love,  and  resolute  to  have  her  way. 

"You  treat  me  as  though  I  were  ten  years  old  and  asking  a 
new  plaything.  Papa,  I  love  Gaston,  he  wants  me  to  be  his 
wife,  and  I  have  promised.  A  promise  given  should  be  a 
promise  kept.  I  will  marry  him,  or  go  to  my  grave  unmar- 
ried." 

"  Then  Heaven  help  you  !  ATy  years  on  earth  will  not  be 
many — don't  interrupt  me,  Katherine;  I  know  what  I  am 
saying — and  when  I  am  gone,  and  you  are  left  to  that  man's 
mercy,  I  say  again  Heaven  help  you  !  " 

"  He  has  given  you  no  earthly  reason  to  say  it ! "  Katherine 
excla'med,  "  and  it  is  iiot  like  you  to  be  unjust.  It  is  a  sliame, 
papa  !  a  shame  !  You  know  nothing  wrong  of  him — nothing. 
Even  the  grim,  pitiless  English  law  takes  the  prisoner  in  tne  dock 
to  be  innocent  until  he  is  i)ro\'cn  guilty.  You  speak  of  him 
as  though  he  were  a  villain,  double-dyed !  I  repeat,  it  is  a 
shame  to  slander  the  absent  in  this  way,  and  a  soldier  who  has 
fought  for  his  country,  as  you  have,  ought  to  be  the  last  to  do 
it.  You  wrote  to  New  Orleans  to  find  out  his  character — did 
the  answer  justify  such  dark  suspicions  as  these  ?" 

"  The  answer  left  me  as  nnich  in  the  dark  as  ever.  Mr. 
Da\itree's  character  in  New  Orleans  is  simply  nil — no  one 
knew  anything  much  cither  to  his  credit  or  discredit.  You 
defend  your  lover  stanchly,  Katherine.  I  don't  think  the 
worse  of  you  for  it,  but  it  won't  do.  Even  you,  my  child,  elo- 
quent as  you  are,  with  all  your  special  pleading,  cannot  make 
a  hero  of  Gaston  Dantree." 

"I  don't  want  to  make  a  hero  of  him;  he  suits  me  well 
enough  as  he  is.  As  he  is,  widi  all  his  faults,  whatever  they 
may  be,  I  am  willing  to  take  him — to  hold  to  him  all  my  life; 
aod  '  e  very  sure,  whatever  that  life  may  prove,  no  one  alive 
shall  ever  hear  me  complain  of  him." 

"  I  believe  you,"  her  father  said,  quietly ;  "  you're  not  a 
model  young  lady  by  any  means,  but  you  deserve  a  much 
better  husband  than  Gaston  Dantree.  Child  !  child  !  you  are 
hopelessly  infatuated — I  miglit  as  well  (alk  to  the  trees  waving 
yonder  outside  the  window  as  to  a  romantic  girl  in  love.     But 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


107 


in 


\ 


But 


think  a  moment — think  how  little  you  know  of  this  man. 
Who  is  to  prove  he  hasn't  a  wife  already  out  yonder  in  the 
Southern  States  ?  " 

"  Papa ! "  But  there  was  a  sharp,  sudden  pang  in  her 
voice  as  she  uttered  the  indignant  cry.  "  Marie  De  Lansac  !  " 
the  name  that  had  haunted  her  dream  that  morning  came  back. 

"  Ah  !  Kathie,  flying  into  a  passion  v;ill  not  prove  his  worth. 
I  repeat,  we  know  nothing  of  him — nothing  but  what  he  has 
chosen  to  tell  or  invent.  Do  you  really  believe,  my  poor 
D^nna  Quixote,  that  if  some  freak  of  fortune  deprived  you 
to-morrow  of  Scarswood  and  its  rent-roll,  he  would  prove  faith- 
ful to  the  love  he  has  vowed  ?  If  you  were  penniiess — as  he  is 
— do  ycu  believe  he  would  ever  make  you  his  wife?" 

She  met  his  sad  gi  ze,  full ;  but  she  was  white  to  the  lips. 

*'  I  believe  it,  papa.  I  know  how  I  would  act  by  him  ; 
poverty — disgrace  even — would  onl}'  make  me  cling  the  more 
devotedly  to  him.  I  would  take  his  part  against  all  the  world, 
and  why  should  I  think  him  the  less  generous  ?  Papa,  it 
may  be  your  duty,  but  you  torture  me  !  What  is  the  use  of  say- 
ing such  things  except  to  make  me  miserable  ?  " 

But  it  was  not  her  father's  words  that  made  her  miserable — 
it  was  the  doubt  in  her  own  heart,  the  conviction  that  he 
spoke  the  truth.  Not  all  her  insane  infatuation  could  con- 
vince her  that  this  man  was  either  loyal  or  true.  She  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  pecuhar  way  enough,  this  impulsive  Katherine, 
and  if  there  is  any  excuse  to  be  made  for  her  willful  perversity, 
it  lies  in  that.  Motherless  at  the  age  of  three,  left  to  a  doting 
father,  spoiled  by  Indian  nurses,  indulged  in  every  caprice, 
she  had  grown  up  headstrong  and  full  of  faults.  The  Indian 
colonel  had  taught  her  to  scorn  a  lie  as  the  base  crime  of  a 
coward  j  and  taught  her  to  be  as  true  as  steel,  loyal,  generous, 
and  brave  ;  and  she  knew  in  her  inmost  heart  that  Gaston 
Dantree  was  nor><=;  of  these  things — was  twice  as  unstable  as 
water.  Only  her  girl's  fancy  had  gone  out  to  him,  and  it  was 
too  late  to  recall  the  gift. 

Her  father  drew  her  to  hiiTx  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  will  say  no  mor  — not  one  word  ;  and  yet  it  is  a  cruel 
kindness.  Do  you  know  what  I  should  have  done,  Kathit-, 
when  that  fellow  came  here  to  ask  your  hand  ?  I  should  have 
said,  *  She  is  there  ;  take  her  if  you  will.  She  is  quite  ready 
and  capable  of  running  away  with  you  to-morrow,  if  you  ask 
her  ;  but  as  long  as  I  live,  not  one  farthing  will  she  ever  receive 
from  me — not  though  she  were  starving,     I  will  never  forgive 


io8 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


!«■  !' 


I 


W 


her  :  I  will  never  see  her.  She  is  in  love  with  you  ;  take  her, 
and  w'hen  the  honeymoon  is  over — starve  !  I  mean  this,  Mr. 
Dantree,  and  we  Dangerfields  -know  how  to  keep  our  word.' 
Kathie,  he  would  never  have  set  foot  again  within  this  house, 
and  you — you  would  hate  your  fatlier.  1  don't  think  1  could 
bear  that,  and  so,  oh,  child  !  marry  him,  if  you  will,  on  New 
Year's  Eve — what  does  a  month  more  or  less  matter  ? — and 
may  die  good  God  keep  you,  and  defend  you  from  the  fate  of 
a  broken-hearted  wife  !" 

She  made  no  reply ;  her  face  was  hidden  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  fear  for  your  future,  my  child  i — I  fear  !  I  fear ! "  the 
old  soldier  said,  with  strange  pathos — "  I  foresee  more  than  I 
dare  tell.  Kathie,  listen  !  Do  you  " — his  steady  voice  faltered 
a  little — "  do  you  think  you  could  bear  to  be  poor  ?  " 

"  Poor,  papa?"  she  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  in 
surprise. 

"Yes,  Katherine  ;  to  be  poor — not  as  we  were  poor  in  India, 
with  servants  to  wait  upon  us,  and  a  colonel's  pay  to  live  on  ; 
but  if  I  were  to  die,  and  it  may  be  soon — child,  be  still — and 
you  were  left  alone  in  the  world,  friendless  and  portionless,  to 
earn  your  own  living  as  other  girls  do — do  you  think  you  could 
bear  that  ? — to  eat  i)oor  food  ?  to  wear  poor  clothing  ?  to  labor 
for  others  ? — that  is  the  sort  of  poverty  I  mean." 

She  gazed  at  him,  lost  in  wonder. 

"  Poor,  poor !  I,  a  baronet's  daughter,  the  heiress  of 
Scarswood  !  Papa,"  bursting  into  a  laugh  for  the  f:rst  time — ■ 
"what  nonsense  are  you  talking?  It  is  impossible  for  me  to 
be  poor." 

"  But  suppose  it  were  not " — he  spoke  with  feverish  eagerness, 
shifting  away  from  the  gaze  of  the  bright,  wondering  eyes — 
*'  suppose  it  were  possible — suppose  such  a  fate  over  tool;  you 
— could  you  bear  it  ?  " 

"Sir  John  Dangerfield,''  the  young  lady  responded,  impa- 
tiently, "  I  don't  want  to  suppose  it — I  won't  suppose  such  a 
preposterous  th'ng  !  No,  I  couldn't  bear  it — there  .'  I  would 
rather  die  than  be  poor — living  on  crusts — wearing  shabby 
dresses — and  workmg  for  insolent,  purse-proud  connnon  .>ich 
people.  Papa,  I  would  just  quietly  glide  out  of  life  in  a  double 
dose  of  morphine,  and  make  an  end  of  it  all.  But  what's  the 
use  of  talking  '•  ch  rubbish?  I'm  Katherine  DanL^eriield, 
heiress  \  it  is  about  as  likely  that  I  shall  go  up  to  die  moon, 
like  Hans  Pfaal,  and  live  there  away  from  everybody,  as  that  I 
shall  ever  turn  shop-girl  and  poor." 


* 


■ 


BEFORE   THE    WEDDING, 


109 


He  set  his  lips  hard  beneath  his  iron-gray  mustache,  and  his 
soldier's  training  stood  him  in  good  stead  now.  Of  the  sharp 
pain  at  his  heart  his  face  showed  no  sign. 

"  And  you  consent,  papa — you  dear,  good-natured  old 
])apa  ?  "  the  girl  said,  her  cheek  close  to  his,  her  lips  to  his  ear ; 
"you  do  consent  !  I  am  only  seventeen,  and  siUy,  no  doubt, 
but  let  me  be  happy  in  my  own  way.  I  can't  help  liking  Gas- 
ton— I  can't  indeed— T-and  I  want  to  trust  him — to  believe  in 
him.  You'll  let  me,  won't  you  ?  You  won't  say  bitter,  cynical 
things  any  more.  And  you  know  you  won't  lose  me,  as  you 
would  if  I  married  any  one  else.  You'll  only  gain  a  son  in- 
stead— and  we'll  all  live  together  here,  as  the  fairy  tales  say — 
happy  forever  after. 

He  sighed  resignedly,  disengaged  himself,  and  arose. 

"  '  When  a  woman  will  she  will,'  etc.  Have  your  own  way, 
Katherine.  Let  the  wedding  be  on  New  Year's  Eve.  I  give 
you  carte  hlaiiche  for  the  ti'oii^seau — order  what  you  please.  I 
can  say  no  more  than  that.  1  will  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bar- 
gain, since  it  is  inevitable  ;  but  I  can't  like  him — I  never  can. 
Marry  him  if  you  will,  but  I  would  almost  sooner  see  you  dead 
than  give  your  fate  into  his  hands.  Keep  him  away  from  me — 
I  had  rather  not  meet  him.     And  Katherine — "  a  pause. 

"Well,  papa,"  she  spoke  rather  sadly.  It  seemed  very  hard 
that  the  two  beings  on  earth  whom  she  loved  best  could  like  one 
another  no  better  than  this.  Her  father  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  her,  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  beeches  tossing 
their  striped  branches  in  the  high  autumnal  gale. 

"Yes,  papa — what  is  it?"" 

"Don't  offend  Mrs.  Vavasor."  He  spoke  with  an  effort. 
"You  don't  like  her,  and  you  take  no  pains  to  hide  it.  Kath- 
erine, it  won't  do." 

"  Why  not,  papa  ?  " 

"I  can't  tell  you  why — only  she  is  your  guest;  as  such  she 
should  be  treated  with  courtesy." 

"  Well,  I  do  try  to  be  courteous — that  is,  1  try  to  endure  her; 
but  papa,  she's  simply  unendurable ;  it  stilles  me  to  live  in  the 
house  with  her.  I  don't  know  why — I  suppose  we're  antago- 
nistic, as  Gaston  says,  but  my  flesh  creeps  when  she  comes  near 
me,  just  as  it  does  when  I  meet  a  toad.  She's  like  a  serpent, 
papa — one  of  those  deadly  cobras  wc  used  to  have  out  in  India 
• — with  her  glittering  eyes,  and  her  sharp,  hissing  voice,  and  her 
noiseless,  gliding  walk.  Why  can't  you  give  her  all  the  money 
she  wants  and  pack  her  off  about  her  business  ?  " 


/ 


no 


BEFORE    THE   WEDDING. 


V. 

H  1 


:i 


I 


M: 


*'  Because — well,  because  the  world  is  civilized,  and  she  is 
our  guest.  Let  us  respect  the  sanctity  of  the  bread  and  salt. 
She  has  a  hold  upon  me — I  may  admit  that  much — and  it 
places  me  in  her  power.  If  I  or  you  offend  her,  Katherine,  it 
is  in  her  power  to  injure  us  both  more  than  I  can  say.  It  is 
imi)ossible  to  explain  ;  I  can  only  say  for  the  present,  treat  her 
civilly  for  my  sake." 

"  I  will  try.     For  your  sake,  papa,  I  would  do  anything." 

'*  Except  give  up  Gaston  Dantree  !  Well,  well !  it  is  the 
way  of  the  world — the  way  of  women — a  very  old  way,  too. 
And  now  go — I  think  I'll  settle  my  mind  by  reading  the  Times 
after  all  this.  Arrange  everything — buy  the  wedding  dresses, 
let  the  wedding  guests  be  bidden,  and  when  the  hour  comes  / 
will  be  ready  to  give  my  daughter  away  to  a  man  of  whom  I 
know  nothing.  That  will  do,  Kathie — I'd  rather  have  no 
thanks.  Let  the  subject  of  Mr.  Dantree  be  dropped  between 
us — it  is  a  subject  on  which  you  and  I  can  never  agree, 
though  we  talked  to  the  crack  of  doom." 

Katherine  laid  her  hand  on  the  handle  of  the  door.  There 
was  a  swift  swish  of  silk  outside.  She  flung  it  wide.  Had  thai 
odious  little  wretch,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  been  listening?  But  the 
])assage  was  deserted,  and  a  tall  Indian  cabinet  hid  the  little 
crouching  figure  completely. 

Miss  Dangerfield  rode  out  under  the  o;"en  sky  and  sunny 
downs  with  her  affianced,  and  Mr.  Dantree  simply  heard  that 
papa  had  consented  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  upon 
New  Year's  Eve — no  more.  But  he  could  easily  infer  the  rest 
from  Kaiherine's  clouded  face. 

"The  sharp-sighted  old  baronet  has  been  abusing  me,"  re- 
ilected  Mr.  Dantree  ;  "  he  has  taken  my  gauge  pretty  accurately 
from  the  first.  I  wonder  how  it  is,  that  my  face,  which  makes 
all  women  fall  in  love  with  me,  makes  all  men  distrust  me  ?  Is 
it  that  women  as  a  rule  are  fools,  and  the  other  sex  are  not  ? 
AVhat  an  awful  muddle  I  nearly  made  of  it  by  carrying  that 
confounded  packet  of  letters  about.  Katherine's  a  prey  to 
the  green-eyea  monster  already,  and  will  be  for  the  rest  of  her 
life.  I  suppose  it  is  in  the  eternal  fitness  of  things,  somehow, 
that  plain  women  should  be  always  savagely  jealous,  espe- 
cially when  they  have  remarkably  handsome  husbands.  Before 
the  year  ends  I  will  be  the  son-in-law  of  Scarswood  Tark,  and 
the  husband  of  eight  t  ^ousand  a  year  I  Gaston  Dantree,  my 
boy,  you're  a  cleverer  fellow  than  even  I  gave  you  credit  for." 

There  was  a  dinner-party  that  evening  at  Scarswood,  ai\d  Mr. 


f  : 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


Ill 


le- 


t  i 


Dantree,  with  a  fatuous  smile,  made  known  to  all  wnom  it  might 
concern  that  the  happy  day  was  near.  Mrs.  Vavasor's  black 
eyes  sparkled  with  their  snakiest  light — the  '-ustling  silk  twisted, 
and  twined,  and  gleamed  about  her  in  more  serpentine  coils 
than  ever.  She  flashed  a  glance  across  at  Peter  Dangerlield, 
who  sat,  with  spectacles  over  pale,  near-sighted  eyes,  on  the 
opposite  side.  And  Captain  De  Vere  stroked  again  his  big, 
heavy,  dragoon  mustache,  and  shot  sharp  glances  of  suppressed 
ferocity  at  the  smiling  bridegroom  elect. 

"  Hang  tlie  beggar !  I'd  like  to  throttle  him,  with  his  self- 
satisfied  grin  and  confident  airs  of  i)ro])rietorship.  I  sui)i)ose 
Sir  John's  falling  into  his  dotage — I  can't  account  for  it  in  any 
other  way,  poor  little  fool,"  widi  a  look  at  Katherine;  "if  he 
treats  her  as  I  know  he  will  treat  her  after  marriage,  I'll  thrash 
him  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  'fore  George  !  I  wish  I  had 
asked  her  myself" 

The  wedding  day  was  announced,  Katherine  was  congratu- 
lated, and  a  little  before  midnight,  with  her  lover's  parting  kiss 
still  on  her  lips,  singing  softly,  she  went  up  to  her  room.  Draped 
with  rose-silk  and  laces,  the  carpet  wreaths  of  rosebuds  on 
snow,  puflfy  silken  chaiis,  a  Swiss  musical-box  playing  tinkling 
tunes,  fire-light  and  waxlight  gleaming  over  all — how  pretty — 
how  pleasant  it  looked.  And  Katherine,  in  her  dinner-dress  of 
rich  mazarine  blue,  and  sai)phire  ornaments  set  in  fine  gold, 
sank  down  in  the  puffiest  of  the  chairs  with  a  tired  sigh. 

There  came  a  soft  tap  at  the  door,  not  the  tap  of  Ninon. 
Katherine  lifted  her  dreamy  eyes  from  the  fire. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Vavasor  entered. 

She  too  still  wore  her  dinner-dress — the  rich  sea  green  silk 
glowed  in  the  light  far  behind  her.  The  diamonds  that  were  not 
from  the  Palais  Royal  flashed  splendidly  on  neck,  and  arms, 
and  cans,  and  fingers.  Her  shining,  luxuriant  black  hair  floated 
over  her  shoulders,  and  the  smile  that  rarely  left  her  was  at  its 
brightest  on  her  face. 

_  "  Am  I  an  intruder  ?  "  she  asked,  gayly.  *<  What  blissful 
visions  of  ante-nuptial  felicity  have  1  frightened  away  ?  You 
will  forgive  me,  I  know,  my  pet.  I  had  to  come.  Kathie, 
dear,  you  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  your  wedding  day  is  so 
near." 

She  took  both  the  girl's  hands  in  hers.  Katherine's  first  im- 
pulse was  to  snatch  them  impatiently  away,  but  she  remem- 


XI2 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


bered  her  father's  warnhig.  This  odious,  fulsome,  fawning 
rreaturc  had  some  mysterious  power  over  him ;  for  his  sake  :;he 
must  be  civiL 

"You  are  very  good,"  but,  despite  the  best  intentions,  Miss 
Dangerfield's  voice  sounded  cold.  "  Will  you  sit  down,  Mrs. 
Vavasor  ?  " 

"No,  love  ;  I  will  stay  but  a  moment.  See,  it  is  niidnight. 
Weird  hour  !"  with  a  shrill  laugh.  "Are  there  ghosts,  do  you 
know,  at  Scarswood  ?  Such  a  dear,  romantic  old  house  ought 
to  be  haunted,  you  know,  to  make  it  complete.  I  supi)ose 
every  house,  as  the  poet  says,  where  men  and  women  have 
lived  and  died,  is  haunted,  and  we  all  carry  our  ghosts  with  us 
through  life.  But  I  won't  turn  prosy  and  metaphysical  on  this 
happy  night.  Ah  I  darling  Kathie,  what  an  enviable  girl  you 
are — how  brightly  your  life  has  been  ordered  !  Seventeen,  rich, 
flattered,  caressed,  and  beloved  !  I  suppose  you  have  never 
had  a  single  wish  ungiatilied  in  your  life,  and  in  two  months 
you  marry  the  man  you  love  with  your  whole  heart — a  man  like 
one's  dreams  of  the  01ymi)ian  Apollo.  And  others  of  us  go 
through  life,  and  don't  find  one  completely  happy  day.  It  is  the 
old  nursery  story  over  again:  'This  little  pig  goes  to  market, 
and  this  little  pig  stays  at  home.'  Katherine  Dangerfield,  what 
a  hai)py  girl  you  ought  to  be  !  " 

"  I  am  happy,  Mrs.  Vavasor." 

Still  Mrs.  Vavasor  stood,  and  looked  at  her.  How  strange 
the  gleam  in  her  eyes,  how  strange  the  smile  on  her  lips  !  The 
firelight  sparkled  on  her  emerald  silk,  on  her  costly  jewels,  on 
her  shining  laces,  on  her  coils  of  satin  black  hair.  Katherine 
had  never  known  fear  in  all  her  life — but  something  in  that 
woman's  face  made  her  shrink  away  in  a  sort  of  terror. 

"Mrs.  Vavasor,"  she  said,  rising  and  turning  white,  "what 
is  it  you  have  come  here  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

The  widow  laughed  aloud — that  shrill,  metallic  laugh  that 
rasped  upon  the  ear. 

"  What  have  I  come  to  say  ?  Why,  to  wish  you  joy,  of 
course,  and  to  tell  you  I  am  going  away." 

"  Going  away  !  "  Ah,  Kathie,  what  a  poor  dissembler  you 
are  !  The  light  of  unutterable  relief  and  gladness  lights  all  your 
face  at  the  words. 

"  Going  away,  my  dearest ;  and  if  I  dared  harbor  so  inhos- 
pitable a  suspicion,  I  should  say  you  looked  glad  to  hear  it. 
But  you're  not,  are  you,  Kathie,  love — and  you  will  speed  the 
parting  guest  with  real  rt^gret  ?     Yes,  my  pet,  I  am  going — 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


"3 


:he 


never  to  come  back — well,  not  more  than  once  again,  perhaps 
— on  your  v  edding  day.  For  I  think  I  must  really  come  to 
your  wedding,  little  Kathie,  and  wish  that  beautiful  Mr. 
Dantree  joy.  How  well  he  loves  you,  Kathie ;  he  is  one  of 
those  artless,  frank  kind  of  men  who  wear  their  hearts  on  their 
sleeves,  for  all  the  world  to  read.  Yes,  I  leave  Scarswood 
just  one  week  preceding  your  wedding  day.  You  look  as  if 
you  did  not  understand — but  you  are  ever  so  much  relieved 
after  all.  liy  the  bye,  Katherine,  you  grow  more  and  more  like 
your  mother  every  day.  Just  at  this  moment,  as  you  stand 
there  in  the  firelight,  in  that  lovely  blue  silk  and  sapphires,  you 
are  fearfully  and  wonderfully  like  her.  Would  you  believe  it, 
Miss  Dangerfield — your  mother  once  prevented  my  marriage  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Vavasor?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  the  little  widow  said  in  her  airiest  manner, 
"  prevented  my  marriage.  It  was  all  for  the  best,  you  know — 
oh,  very  tnuch  for  the  best,  I  am  not  speaking  of  Mr. 
Vavasor,  poor  dear — your  mother  never  knew  him.  1  was 
quite  young  when  my  little  romance  h  'ppened,  a  year  or  two 
older  than  you  are  now.  He  was  scarcely  older  than  myself, 
and  very  handsome — not  so  handsome  as  that  divine  Gaston, 
though,  of  course.  And  I  was — well,  yes — I  was  just  as  deeply 
in  love  as, you,  my  impetuous  darling,  are  this  moment.  The 
wedding  day  was  fixed,  and  the  wedding  dress  made,  and  at 
the  last  hour  your  mother  prevented  it.  It  is  nearly  twenty 
years  ago,  and  if  you  will  believe  it,  the  old  pain  and  disap- 
pointuient,  and  anger,  and  mortification  comes  back  now,  as  I 
talk,  almost  as  sharply  as  they  did  then.  For  I  suffered — as  I 
had  loved — greatly.  I  have  never  seen  him  for  twenty  long 
years,  and  I  never  want  to  now.  He  is  alive  still,  and  married, 
with  grown-up  sons  and  daughters,  and  I  dare  say,  laughs  with 
his  wife — a  great  lady,  my  dear — over  that  silly  episode  of  a 
most  silly  youth.  And  I — I  eat,  drink,  and  am  merry  as  you 
see,  and  I  forgave  your  mother,  as  a  Christian  should,  and 
married  poor,  dear  Mr.  Vavasor,  and  was  happy.  Your  mother 
died  in  my  arms,  Kathie,  and  now  I  am  coming  to  her 
daughter's  wedding." 

She  laid  her  hand— burning  as  though  with  fever— on  the 
girl's  wrist,  and  fixed  her  black,  glitteiing  eyes  strangely  upon 
her. 

"  Look  for  me  on  your  wedding  day,  Katherine — I  shall  be 
there ! " 

The  girl  snatched  her  hand  angrily  away.    "  Mrs.  Va,  asor  !  " 


114 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


\i  V. 


she  cried  out,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?     Why  do  )-on  look  at  me 
so  ?     You  frlgliten  me  !  " 

"Do  I?"  with  her  mocking  laugh.  *' Now  I  never  meant 
to  do  that.  I  don't  mean  an)  thing,  how  could  I  J — but  best 
wishes  for  you.  Ciood-night,  Kathcrine — bride  elect — heiress 
of  Scarswood — baronet's  daughter — good-night,  and  pleasant 
dreams. 

*  TTie  morn  is  merr>'  June,  I  trow, 
The  rose  is  budtling  fain  ; 
'  But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

■    Ere  we  two  meet  again. 
He  turned  his  charger  as  no  spoke,  • 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  the  reins  a  shake,  and  cried  * 

Adieu  forevcrniore, 
_  My  love  ! 

Adieu  forevcrmore  ! '  " 

A  last  derisive  glance  of  the  black  eyes,  a  taunting  smile — 
singing  Mr.  Dantree's  song — Mrs.  Vavasor  vanished. 

Hours  and  hours  after  Katherine  sat  very  still,  very  pale, 
and  very  unlike  her  bright,  dashing,  defiant  self,  before  the 
flickering  fire.  What  did  il  all  mean  ?  Mysteries  in  books  were 
very  nice,  the  thicker  and  blacker  the  better  ;  but  in  everyday 
life — well,  they  were  exasperating.  What  power  did  this  woman 
hold  over  her  father  ? — why  could  he  not  speak  out  and  tell 
heri  If  he  could  not  trust  the  daughter  who  loved  him,  whom 
could  he  trust !  Wniat  did  Mrs.  Vavasor  mean  by  her  sneering 
taunts,  only  half  hidden,  her  innuendo,  her  delusive  smiles  and 
glances,  her  ominous  song?  Was  it  in  the  power  of  this  dark, 
evil  woman  to  part  her  and  her  lover? 

"  No,"  she  said  proudly,  lifting  her  head  with  that  haughty 
grace  that  was  her  chief  charm  ;  "  no  man  or  woman  on  earth 
can  do  that.  Nodiing  in  this  world  can  come  between  Gaston 
and  me,  unless  he  should  prove — " 

**  False  ! "  Not  even  to  herself  could  she  repeat  that  word. 
She  got  up  shivering  a  little. 

"It  grows  cold,"  she  thought;  "I  will  go  to  bed,  and  to- 
morrow I  shall  tell  papa,  and  beg  him  once  more  to  explain. 
1  cannot  endure  that  woman's  presence  much  longer." 

If  early  rising  be  a  virtue.  Miss  Dangerfield  possessed  it. 
She  might  dance  all  night,  until  "  the  wee  sma'  hours  ayont  the 
twal',"  but  she  was  prepared  to  rise  at  six  next  morning,  as 
fresh  as  the  freshest.  When  Sir  John  came  out  on  the  terrace 
for  his  morning  smoke,  he  found  his  daughter  pacing  up  and 
down  slowly  in  the  pale,  chill  sunlight.     A  scarlet   bournous 


BEFORE   THE    WEDDING, 


115 


wrapped  her,  and  her  dark  face  looked  wan  and  somber  fiom 
out  its  glowing  folds. 

'*  You  here,  Katlierine  ! "  the  baronet  said,  as  he  stopped 
and  kissed  her.  He  was  ^ery  gentle  with  her  of  late  ;  there 
was  a  sort  of  sad,  abnormal  tenderness  in  his  face  now.  It  did 
sur[)rise  him  to  fnid  her  here  so  early,  but  looking  again  at  her,  he 
saw  how  heavy  the  bright  eyes  were,  how  slow  the  elastic  foot- 
fall, the  shadows  ou  the  tell-tale  face.  "What  is  it,  Kathie  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  You  look  as  though  you  hadn't  slept  last  night. 
Has  anything  gone  wrong  ?" 

"Well,  no,,  papa  ;  nothing  exactly  gone  wrong,  jjerhaps  :  but 
I  feel  unhappy,  and  cross,  and  mystified.  I  didn't  sleep  last 
night,  and  it's  all  owing  to  that  detestable  woman.  Light 
your  cigar,  papa,  and  I  will  tell  you  while  we  walk  up  and 
down."  She  clasped  both  hands  round  his  arm,  and  looked  up 
with  dark,  solemn  eyes.  "  Papa,  I  want  you  to  send  her  away. 
She  is  a  wretch — a  wicked,  plotling,  envious  wretch  !  I  was 
happy  last  night — I  don't  think  I  ever  was  hap])ier  in  my  life. 
What  business  had  she  to  come  and  spoil  it  all  ?  I  hate  to  be 
unhappy — 1  won't  be  unhap])y  !  and,  papa,  1  insist  upon  your 
sending  the  odious  little  killjoy  away  I" 

His  Ijronzed  face  paled  perceptibly ;  an  angry  glance  came 
into  his  steel-blue  eyes. 

"  You  mean  Mrs.  Vavasor,  I  presume  ?  What  has  she 
done  ?  " 

*'  Done  !  "  Katherine  repeated,  with  r.igry  impatience — 
"she  has  done  nothing — she  is  too  cunning  for  that;  and  it 
isn't  altogether  what  she  says,  either;  it's  her  look,  her  tone, 
her  smile,  that  insinuates  a  thousand  things  more  than  she  ever 
utters.  That  horrid,  perpetual  simper  of  hers  says,  plainer  than 
words,  *  I  know  lots  of  things  to  your  disadvantage,  my  dear, 
and  I'll  tell  them,  too,  some  day,  if  you  don't  use  me  wtU.'  I 
hate  people  that  go  smirking  through  life,  full  of  evil  and 
malice,  and  all  uncharitableness,  and  who  never  lose  their 
temper." 

"  You  seem  to  have  decidedly  lost  yours  this  morning,  my 
dear.     May  I  repeat 7-what  has  Mrs.  Vavasor  done  ?  " 

*'  This,  papa :  she  came  to  my  room  last  night,  instead  of 
going  honestly  to  bed  like  any' other  Christian,  and  began  talk- 
ing to  me  about  my — mother." 

Sir  John  Dangerfield  took  his  cigar  suddenly  from  betweer* 
his  lips,  a  dark  red  flash  of  intense  anger  mounting  to  his 
brow. 


ii6 


BEFORE   THE   WEDDING, 


•5  :  • 


!.t| 


% 


"  About  your  mother  ! "  he  repeated,  in  a  tense  sort  of  voice. 
"What  did  Mrs.  Vavasor  say  about  your  mother,  Kathie?" 

"  She  said,  for  one  tl)ing,  that  my  n)otlicr  once  prevented  her 
marriage.     Now,  did  she  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  am  aware  of.     Was  that  all  ?" 

"Well,  that  was  all  she  accused  her  of,  but  there  were 
volumes  implied.  My  mother  died  in  her  arms,  she  said,  and 
she  had  long  ago  forgiven  her.  Pa])a,  if  evtr  I  saw  a  devil  in 
human  eyes  I  saw  one  in  hers  as  she  said  it.  She  hated  my 
mother ;  she  hates  me  ;  and  if  it  is  in  her  power  to  do  me 
or  you  any  harm,  she  will  do  it  before  she  leaves  Sussex  as 
surely  as  we  bo.th  stand  here." 

"  kathcrine,for  Heaven's  sake — " 

"  She  will,  papa  ! "  Katherine  cried,  firmly.  "  All  the  harm 
she  can  do  us  she  will  do.  But  is  it  in  her  power  to  really 
liarm  us  ?     The  will  is  there  fast  enough,  but  is  the  way  ?" 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  sob  in  every  word,  "  it 
is  in  her  power  to  ruin  ui— to  ruin  youy 

Katherine  looked  at  him — very  pale,  very  grave,  very  quiet. 
You  could  see  at  once  how  this  impulsive  girl,  ready  to  cry  out 
lustily  with  impatient  anger  over  little  troubles,  would  bear 
great  ones. 

"  Then  Heaven  help  us  ! "  she  said,  "  if  that  be  true.  I 
don't  understand,  and  it  seems  tome  you  will  not  explain  until 
the  blow  falls.  Perhaps  I  could  bear  it  better  if  I  knew  be- 
forehand what  I  had  to  endure.  Just  now  it  seems  strangely 
impossible.  You  are  a  wealthy  baronet  and  I  am  your  only 
child — how  can  a  woman  like  that  injure  or  ruin  us  ?  Papa," 
suddenly,  "  is  there  any  flaw  in  your  right  of  succession  to 
Scui^wood — is  there  any  heir  whose  claim  is  better  than  your 
own  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  a  look  that  haunted  her  for  many  a  day, 
with  eyes  full  of  trouble. 

"And  if  it  were  so.  If  there  were  a  claimant  whose  right 
was  better  than  my  own — if  some  day,  and  very  soon.  Scars- 
wood  were  taken  from  us,  and  we  went  out  into  the  world  poor, 
disgraced,  and  penniless,  how  would  it  be  then.  I  have  asked 
you  before,  1  ask  you  again — could  you  bear  poverty,  Katherine  ? 
Could  you  bear  to  leave  Scarswood  and  its  splendors,  and  go 
forth  among  the  women  and  men  who  work,  and  be  happy  ?  " 

She  set  her  lips  close. 

"  I  could  go,  papa,  I  suppose,"  she  answered,  in  a  hard  sort 
of  voice.     "  We  can  endure  almost  anything,  and  people  don't 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


"7 


break  their  hearts  for  any  loss  in  tills  nineteenth  century.  But 
— happy — that  is  ciuite  another  thing.  I  have  told  you  many 
times,  and  I  repeat  it  now,  I  would  rather  die  than  be  poor." 

She  stopped,  and  there  was  dead  silence  while  i.iey  walked 
lip  and  down  the  long  stone  terrace.  Up  in  the  bright  October 
sky  the  sun  rained  its  golden  light,  and  up  in  the  breezy  turrets 
the  great  breakfasl-beU  began  to  clang ;  very  fair  Scarswood 
park  looked  in  tlie  amber  radiance  of  the  cris[)  early  morning 
— the  green  and  golden  depths  of  fern,  the  grand  old  oaks,  and 
elms,  and  beeches,  the  climbing  ivy  of  centuries'  growth,  the 
red  deer  racing,  and  the  stately  old  mansion,  with  its  eastern 
windows  glittering  like  sparks  of  lire.  Katherine's  eyes  wan- 
dered over  it  all — she  had  learned  to  love  every  tree,  every 
stone  in  the  grand  old  place, 

"Papa,"  she  said,  at  last,  a  sort  of  wail  in  her  tone,  "must 
we  go — must  we  give  up  all  this?  Was  I  right  after  all,  and  is 
this  the  secret  Mrs.  Vavasor  holds?" 

"Supposing  it  were — what  then,  Kathie  ?" 

"Then,"  her  eyes  flashed,  "order  her  out  of  the  house 
within  the  hour,  though  we  should  follow  her  the  ne.xt." 

"  What — and  brave  ruin  and  exposure  when  we  may  avert 
them?" 

"  You  will  not  avert  them.  That  woman  will  not  spare  you 
one  pang  she  can  inflict.  And  if  we  must  go" — she  threw  back 
her  head  with  right  royal  grace — "  I  would  rather  we  walked 
out  ourselves,  than  wait  to  be  turned  out.  So  that  I  have  you 
and  Gaston  left,  papa,  I  can  endure  all  the  rest." 

His  mouth  set  itself  rigidly  under  his  beard,  and  the  soldier- 
fire  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Let  us  go  in,  papa,"  Katherine  said,  resolutely,  "  and  when 
breakfast  is  over,  give  Mrs.  Vavasor  her  conge.  It  is  for  my 
sake  you  have  been  afraid  of  her — not  for  your  own.  Well,  I 
hate  poverty,  I  know,  but  I  hate  Mrs.  Vavasor  much  more. 
Send  her  away,  and  let  her  do  her  worst." 

"  She  shall  go  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  papa.  It  was  not  like  you  to  be  afraid  of 
anybody.  I  will  breathe  freely  again  once  she  is  outside  of  Scars- 
wood.     Shall  she  go  to-day  ?  " 

"  To-day — the  sooner  the  better  ;  and  then,  Kathie — " 

"Then,  pajja,  when  you  and  I  and  Gaston  go,  it  will  be 
together.  If  we  are  to  be  poor,  I  will  work  for  you — turn 
actress,  or  authoress,  or  artist,  or  something  free,  and  jolly,  and 


Ii8 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


1 

III 


M 


Bi)liomIaii,  and  try  and  remember  Scarswood,  and  its  glories, 
only  as  pc-ople  remember  beautiful,  impossible  dreams." 

"  My  dauMtli'ss  little  girl  !  Hut  we  won't  leave  Scarswood  ! 
—  no,  no!  for  all  tiie  little  [lainted  women  this  side  of  jjerdition. 
She  shall  go,  and  we  will  stay,  and  we  will  let  iier  do  her  worst. 
While  I  live  at  least  you  are  safe — after  that — " 

"  Hut,  papa  !"  with  a  sort  of  gasp,  "  that  other  heir-  -" 

The  baronet  laughed. 

"  There  is  no  other  heir,  my  dear— Scarswood  is  mine,  and 
mine  only — Mrs.  Vavasor  shall  go,  and  we  will  have  our 
wedding  in  peace,  and  if  in  the  future  any  great  loss  or  worldly 
misfortune  befall  you,  let  us  hope  (laston  Dantiee's  husbandly 
love  will  n)ake  up  for  it.  Yes,"  he  lifted  his  head,  and  spoke 
defiantly,  as  thouc,  i  throwing  off  an  intolerable  burden,  "come 
what  may,  the  woman  shall  go  ! '' 

They  found  her  in  the  breakfast  parlor  when  they  entered, 
looking  out  over  the  sunlit  landscape,  and  waiting  impatiently 
for  her  breakfast.  Late  hours  did  not  agree  with  Mrs.  Vavasor 
— it  was  a  very  chalky  and  haggard  face  she  turned  to  the 
baronet  and  his  daughter  in  the  garish  morning  light.  Her 
admirers  shonld  have  seen  her  at  this  hoiu" — the  seamed  and 
sallow  skin — the  dry,  parched  lips — the  sunken  eyes  with  the 
bistre  circles — even  the  perennial  siiile,  so  radiant  and  fresh 
under  the  lamps,  looked  ghastly  in  the  honest,  wholesome  snn- 
light. 

"  Good-morning,  dear  Sir  John — good-morning,  dearest 
Kathie.  How  well  the  child  looks  after  last  night's  late  hours 
— as  fresh  as  a  rosebud,  while  I — but  alas  !  1  am  live-and- 
thirty,  and  she  is  sweet  seventeen.  Well,  regret  for  my  lost 
youth  and  good  looks  shall  never  impair  my  appetite  ;  so  *  queen 
rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls,'  the  sooner  you  give  me  a 
cup  of  coffee,  the  sooner  my  nerves  will  be  strung  for  the  battle 
of  life  that  we  all  poor  wretches  fight  every  day." 

In  dead  silence  Katherine  obeyed — in  dead  silence  the 
baronet  took  his  place.  Her  fate  was  sealed,  her  days  at 
Scarswood  numbered.     She  saw  it  at  a  glance. 

'*  I  frightened  her  last  night,"  she  thought,  "  and  she  has  been 
laying  in  a  com[)laint  to  papa,  this  morning,  and  papa  has 
plucked  up  courage  from  despair,  and  I  am  to  get  the  route  to- 
day. \\'hat  a  fool  I  growl  Having  waited  nineteen  yeiirs,  I 
might  surely  have  waited  two  months  more.  Well,  as  I  must 
hold  in  my  hand  that  promised  check  for  ten  thousand  poimds 
before  I  cross  the  threshold,  what  does  it  signify  ?     I  shall  go 


% 


BEFORE   Tim  WEDDING, 


119 


to  liOndon  or  Paris — my  own  ck-ar,  cv(!r  new,  ever  beautiful 
Paris — iiiitil  the  last  week  of  the  olil  year,  anil  enjoy  myself 
instead  of  mopint^  to  death  in  this  dull,  respectable  lCn|^hsh 
house,  among  dull,  respectable  English  people.  It  is  just  as 
well  a.i  it  is." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  was  as  agreeably  conversable  as  usual  during 
breakfast,  but  as  three  (luarters  of  an  hour's  steady  talking  to 
people  who  only  answer  in  tersely  chill  monosyllables  is  apt  to 
be  wearisome  even  to  the  sprightlicst  disposition,  her  dreary 
yawn  at  rising  was  very  excusable. 

"  I  believe  1  shall  postpone  my  shopping  expedition  to 
Castleford  after  all  this  morning,  and  go  back  to  bed.  Oh 
dear !  "  another  stilled  yawn,  "  liow  sleepy  I  am.  And  we  dine 
this  evening,  do  we  not,  dearest  Kalhie,  at  Morecambe?" 

"  Mrs.  Vavasor,"  Sir  John  inlennpted  with  cold,  curt  de- 
cision, *'  before  you  go  to  Casth^ford  or  to  sleep,  be  kiml 
enough  to  follow  me  into  my  study.  I  have  a  word  to  say  to 
you." 

He  led  the  way  instantly ;  Mrs.  Vavasor  paused  a  moment 
and  looked  over  !ier  shoulder  at  Katherine  with  that  smile  the 
girl  hated  so. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  she  said,  slowly.  **  IVFy  time  has 
come.  If  ,1  shall  ;/^/ be  able  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the 
Morecambe  dinner  party  this  evening,  you  will  make  my  ajjol- 
ogies,  will  you  not,  dearest  ?  And  give  my  love  to  that 
perfectly  delicious  Mr.  Dantree." 

And  then  she  went,  humming  a  tune,  and  entered  the  study, 
and  stood  before  the  grim  old  baronet. 

He  shut  and  locked  the  door,  took  a  seat,  and  pointed  im- 
peratively for  her  to  take  another.  All  the  time  her  eyes 
followed  him  with  a  hard,  cold  glitter,  that  seemed  to  set  his 
teeth  on  edge.  He  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  and  plunged 
headlong  into  his  subject. 

"  Harriet  Harman — Mrs.  Vavasor — whatever  name  you 
please,  you  must  leave  this  house  at  once  !  You  hear — at 
once  I  " 

"  I  hear,"  she  laughed.  "  It  would  be  a  dull  intellect  in- 
deed, my  dear  Sir  John,  that  could  fail  to  comjjrehend  your 
ringing  military  orders.  I  must  go,  and  at  once.  Now  that  is 
harcl  when  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to  stir  until  after 
Christmas.  Your  house  is  elegant,  your  cook  perfection, 
your  wines  unexceptionable,  your  purse  bottomless,  and  your 
friends  eminently  respectable.     I'm  not  used   to   respectable 


8' 


s    f 


1 20 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


people,  nor  full  purses,  and  I  like  Scarswood.  Now,  suppose 
1  insist  upon  spending  Christmas  here,  after  all  ?  " 

She  folded  her  arms,  and  looked  at  him  exactly  as  she  had 
done  on  the  nidit  of  her  arrival. 

"  I  will  suppose  nothing  of  the  sort — you  must  go." 

"  Ah  !  I  must !  I  like  i)eople,  do  you  know,  who  say  a 
thing,  and  stick  to  it.  Well,  you're  master  here,  of  course,  and 
if  you  insist  upon  it,  what  can  a  poor  little  helpless  widow  d;.  ? 
Bu*-,  Sir  John,  I  wonder  you're  not  afraid." 

"  Beyond  a  C(  tain  point  fear  ceases,  and  desperation 
comes.  I  can  endure  your  presence,  your  sneers,  your  covert 
threats  no  longer.  You  are  no  fit  companion,  as  I  told  you 
before,  for  Katherine — a  woman  noted  as  the  most  notorious 
gambler  of  Baden  and  Homburg  during  the  past  ten  years. 
The  girl  hates  you,  as  you  know,  and  you — how  dared  you  go 
to  her  room  as  you  did  last  night,  and  talk  of  her  mother? 
How  cared  you  do  it  ?  " 

His  passion  was  rising — there  was  a  suppressed  fury  in  his 
tone  and  look,  all  the  stronger  for  being  so  long  restrained. 
The  widow  met  it  with  a  second  scornful  laugh. 

"  How  dared  I  do  it?  You  have  yet  to  learn  what  I  dare 
do.  Sir  John.  Don't  lose  your  temper,  I  beg — it's  not  beconu"ng 
in  a  soldier,  a  gentleman,  and  a  baronet.  How  dared  I  talk 
to  Katherine  of  her  mother?  Now,  really.  Sir  John,  that 
sounds  almost  wicked,  doesn't  it?  What  more  filial — what 
more  sacred  subject  could  I  talk  to  a  child  upon  than  the  sub- 
ject of  her  sainted  mother?" 

"  Harriet,  I  thought  I  would  never  stoop  to  ask  a  favor  of 
you  again,  but  now  I  do.     Tell  me — " 

"That  will  do.  Sir  John — I  know  what  is  coining,  and  I 
won't  tell — never  !  never  !  never  !  It  would  be  poor  revenge 
indeed  if  I  did.  Wliat  you  know  now  is  all  you  ever  will 
know,  or  she  either.  I'll  leave  Scarswood  to-day,  if  you 
like.  After  all,  hum-drum  respectability  and  stupid  stuck-up 
country  fauiilies  are  apt  to  pall  on  depraved  Bohen^ian  palates 
used  to  clever  disreputable  nobodies.  Yes,  I'll  go,  Sir  John. 
Give  me  diat  ten  thousand  pound  check.  Alon  Dieu  !  the  life 
I  mean  to  lead  in  Paris  on  that ;  delightful,  respectable,  ortho- 
dox— and  I'll  shake  the  dust  of  Scarswood  off  my  wandering 
feet — forever  ! " 

"Forever  !     You  swear  never  to  trouble  us  more?" 

"  I  will  swear  anything  you  like,  baronet.  Oaths  or  words — • 
it's  all  the  same  to  Mrs.  Vavasor." 


BEFORE   THE   WEDDING. 


,  suppose 
.8  she  had 


vho  say  a 
)iirse,  and 
idow  dL  ? 

isperation 
>ur  covert 

told  you 
notorious 
en  years. 
xl  you  go 

mother? 

iry  in  his 
strained. 

at  I  dare 
becoming 
ed  I  talk 
3lin,  that 
ial — what 
I  the  sub- 
favor  of 

g,  and  I 
revenge 
ever  will 
^  if  you 
stuck-up 
1  palates 
iir  John. 
'  the  life 
e,  ortho- 
andering 


ivords-^ 


L 


Vk 


"  How  can  I  trust  you  ?  How  am  I  to  tell  that  after  I  pay 
you  the  exorbitant  price  you  ask  for  your  secrecy,  you  will 
not  go  to  Peter  Dangerfield  and  betray  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart. 
■  "  On  the  honor  of  all  the  Vavasors,  whose  sang-azure  flows 
in  those  veins,  I  swear  it !  You  nnist  take  my  word,  baronet, 
and  chance  it.  Have  I  not  promised — am  I  not  ready  to 
swear — '  by  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broken '  ?  What 
more  do  you  want?  Give  me  the  money,  and  let  me  bid 
you — '  oh,  friend  of  my  brighter  days  ! ' — one  long,  one  last 
farewell ! " 

He  went  to  his  writing-case,  and  handed  her  a  crossed  check 
for  ten  thousand  pounds.  Her  eyes  flashed  with  intense  de- 
light as  she  looked  at  it. 

"Ten  thousand  pounds!  Ten  thousand  pounds!  and  I 
never  had  ten  thousand  pence  before  in  all  my  life.  Sir  Jolm, 
a  million  thanks.  May  you  be  happy  ! — may  your  shadow 
never  be  less !  May  your  children's  children  (meaning  the 
future  little  Dantrees)  rise  up,  and  call  you  blessed  !  Those 
aged  eyes  of  .yours  will  never  be  pained  by  the  spectacle  of 
my  faded  features  more.  I  go.  Sir  John — 1  go — and  1  leave 
my  benediction  behind." 

She  w.ent  up  to  her  room  singing.  Ninon  was  summoned, 
a  chambermaid  was  summoned,  and  Mrs.,  Vavasor  worked 
with  right  good-will.  Two  little  shabby  portmanteaus  had  held 
Mrs.  Vavasor's  wardrobe  last  September — now  four  large 
trunks  and  no  end  of  big  boxes,  little  boxes,  and  hand-bags 
were  filled.  And  with  the  yellow  radiance  of  the  noonday 
sunshine  bathing  park,  trees,  turrets,  and  stately  mansion 
in  its  glory,  Mrs.  Vavasor  was  whirled  away  to  Castleford  sta- 
tion. 

She  looked  back  as  the  light  trap  flew  through  the  great 
gates,  and  under  the  huge  Norman  arch. 

"A  fair  and  noble  inheritance,"  she  said;  "too  fair  by  f;\r 
to  go  to  her  mother's  daughter.  Your  sky  is  without  a  cloud, 
now,  but  when  next  I  come,  my  brilliant,  h  [)py,  haughty 
Kaiherine,  look  to  yourself  This  morning's  v.  nk  is  your  do- 
ing—I am  not  likely  to  forget  that." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  was  gone.  The  news  fell  upon  Mr.  Peter 
Dangerfield  like  a  blow.  As  suddenly  and  mysteriously  as 
she  had  at  first  appeared,  she  had  vanished,  and  where  were  all 
her  vague  promises  and  bewildering  insinuations  now  ? 

Katherine  was  to  be  married,  the  wedding  day  was  fixed,  he 
6 


122 


BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 


had  been  bidden  to  the  feast.  She  had  insulted  him,  scorned 
him ;  he  must  pocket  his  rage,  and  Hve  without  his  revenge. 
He  v.'n'-:  not  prepared  to  break  tlie  kiw  and  commit  a  murder, 
and  how  else  was  he  to  pay  oft'  this  insolent  heiress,  and 
her  still  more  insolent  lover  ?  Mrs.  Vavasor  was  gone,  and  all 
his  hopes  of  vengeance  went  with  her. 

Something  might  happen,  to  be  sure,  between  this  and  the 
wedding  day.  Gaston  Dantree  might  be  shown  ui)  in  his  true 
colors,  as  the  unprincipled  fortune-hunter  he  was.  People  die 
suddenly,  too,  occasionally.  Katherine  might  break  her 
neck  even,  in  one  of  her  mad  gallops  over  highways  and  h^- 
,  ays.     While  there  is  life  there  is  hope. 

He  went  to  Scarswood  pretty  frequently  now — saw  the 
lovers  together  happy  and  handsome,  made  himself  agreeable, 
always  in  a  cousinly  way,  and  the  weekb  sped  on.  The  trous- 
seau was  ordered,  all  was  joy  and  gayety  at  the  great  house. 
Christmas  week  came  and  nothing  had  happened. 

He  sat  moodily  alone  one  evening — Christmas  Eve  it  chanced 
to  be — before  his  solitary  bachelor  fire,  brooding  over  his 
Avrongs.  His  solitary,  bachelor  dinner  stood  on  ti-.e  table — he 
had  been  invited  to  a  brilliant  dinner  party  at  Scarswood,  but 
he  was  growing  tired  of  going  to  Scarswood,  and  hoping  against 
hope.  Nothing  ever  befell  this  insolent  pair — Katherine 
grew  happier — brighter — more  joyous  every  day,  and  that  up- 
start, Dantree,  more  invincibly  good-looking.  Nothing  hap- 
pened ;  luck  was  dead  against  him  ;  nothing  ever  would  hap- 
pen. This  night  week  was  the  wedding  night — and  what  a 
life  spread  before  those  two  in  the  future.  It  drove  him  half- 
mad  to  look  at  them  at  times.  And  he — he  must  go  on 
grubbing  like  a  worm  in  the  clay,  for  ever  and  ever.  Kathe- 
rine and  Katherine's  children  would  inherit  Scarswood,  and 
all  hope  v/as  at  an  end  for  him.  He  was  only  a  rickety  dwarf. 
Never  while  life  remained  would  he  forget  or  /orgive  those 
cruel  words. 

"If  I  live  for  sixty  )'ears  to  come,  I'll  only  live  in  the 
hope  of  paying  you  off,  my  lady,"  he  muttered,  clenching  his 
teeth;  "it's  a  long  lane,  indeed,  that  has  no  turning!  Curse 
that  Mrs.  Vavasor  !  If  she  knew  anything,  why  didn't  she  tell 
me?" 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  he  called,  sulkily;  "it's  time  you  came  to 
clear  away  that  mess."  He  thought  it  was  the  servant,  but 
instead  a  lady — dressed  in  black — and  closely  vailed,  entered. 


;l 


^ 


THE   WEDDING  NIGH7\ 


123 


^corned 

ivenge. 
murder, 
:ss,  and 

and  all 

and  the 
his  true 
Dple  die 
ak  her 
aiid  by- 
saw  the 
;rrceable, 
he  irons- 
,t  house. 

chanced 
over  his 
able — lie 
/ood,  but 
ig  against 
•Catherine 
i  that  up- 
iiing  hap- 
3uld  hap- 
d  what  a 
him  half- 
5t  go  on 
Kathe- 
'ood,  and 
sty  dwarf, 
ive  those 

ve  in  the 
iching  his 
y !  Curse 
't  she  tell 


came  to 
rvant,  but 
,  entered. 


He  arose  in  surprise,  and  stood  looking  at  her.  Who  was 
this?  She  shut  the  door,  turned  the  key,  advanced  toward 
him,  and  held  out  her  hands  to  the  fire. 

"It  is  cold,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  walked  all  the  way  from 
the  station.  Have  you  dined  ?  What  a  pity  !  And  I  am  hungry. 
Well,  give  me  a  glass  of  wine  at  least." 

He  knew  the  voice.  With  a  suppressed  exclamation  he  drew 
nearer. 

"  It  is,"  he  said — "  surely  it  is — ^" 

"  Mrs.  Vavasor ! "  She  flung  back  her  vail  and  met  his 
glance,  with  the  old  smile,  the  old  malicious  expression.  "  Yes, 
it  is  Mrs.  Vavasor,  come  all  the  way  from  Paris  to  see  you, 
and  keep  her  word.  A  promise  should  be  held  sacred — and 
I  promised  you  your  revenge,  did  I  not?  Yes,  Mr.  Danger- 
field,  I  have  travelled  straight  from  Paris  to  you,  to  tell  you 
what  is  to  make  your  fortune,  and  mine — Sir  John  Dangerfield's 
secret ! " 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE   WEDDING   NIGHT. 


ITH  a  fierce,  low  cry  of  intense  delight,  Peter  Danger- 
field  gras[)ed  her  by  the  wrist,  his  thin  face  close  to 
hers,  and  flushed  with  eager  joy. 

"  You  will  tell  me  !  "  he  almost  gasped — "you  mean 
it  this  night ! — you  will  tell  me  to-night !  " 

"  To-night.  Let  go  my  wrist,  Mr.  Dangerfield  ;  you  hurt  me. 
Be  civil  enough  to  hand  me  a  chair ;  now  a  glass  of  wine — or 
brandy,  if  you  have  it.     Ah  !  this  is  the  true  elixir  of  life  !  " 

She  sat  down  before  the  fire,  put  up  her  little  Paris  gaiters 
on  the  fender,  lay  back  luxuriously,  and  took  the  glass  of 
French  brandy  he  otitered  her. 

"  You  are  sure  there  are  no  eavesdroppers  in  your  establish- 
ment,  mon  ami?     I  don't  care  about  being  overheard." 
"  There  are  none." 

She  drew  forth  from  her  purse  a  slip  of  written  paper — Peter 
Dangerfield's  promise  to  pay  her  ten  thousand  pounds  when 
Scarswood  became  his. 


124 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT. 


'h\ 


V  : 


"  You  recognize  this,  Mr.  Dangcrfield,  and  are  still  willing  to 
abide  by  it  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  willing.  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  keep  me  in 
this  fever  of  suspense  and  curiosity — speak  out !  " 

She  replaced  the  slip  of  paper,  finished  the  brandy,  and  pro- 
duced a  rose-scented  cigarette. 

"  I  always  smoke  when  I  talk,  if  possible,  and  the  story  I 
have  to  tell  i?  a  somewhat  lengthy  one.  Won't  you  load,  and 
light  up  also  ? — I  see  your  little  black  pipe  there  on  the  chim-- 
ney-piece.  No?  You're  too  anxious,  I  perceive,  and  nobody 
can  enjoy  a  pipe  or  manilia,  and  listen  thoroughly  at  the  same 
time.  VVell,  before  I  begin,  I  must  extort  another  promise. 
No  matter  what  I  cell  you,  you  are  not  to  sj^eak  of  it  until  I 
give  you  leave.  Don't  look  alarmed — your  prohibition  will 
not  last  long — only  until  Katherine  Dangerfield's  wedding-day. 
Is  it  a  promise?" 

"  It  is.     Go  on — go  on ! "  ^ 

"  Draw  closer,  then." 

He  obeyed,  and  littfe  Mrs.  Vavasor,  leaning  back  in  the 
easy  chair,  shoes  to  the  fire,  cigarette  in  mouth,  began,  fluently 
and  at  once,  the  story  she  had  come  to  tell. 


The  Christmas  festivities  at  Scarswood  were  very  gay  indeed, 
and  Mr.  Peter  Dangerfield  missed  a  very  pleasant  evening  by 
staying  away.  Perhaps,  though,  on  the  whole,  he  enjoyed  iiim- 
self  quite  a„  much  in  his  bachelor  lodgings  at  Castleford,  tete-a- 
tete  with  Mrs.  Vavasor.  The  long  drawing-rooms  were  ablaze 
with  light,  and  festooned  with  ivy  and  mistletoe,  and  gleaming 
with  scarlet  hollyberries.  A  very  large  company  were  assem- 
bled— it  was  an  understood  thing  that  Miss  Dangerfield  ap- 
peared in  public  no  more  until  she  appeared  as  a  bride. 

She  was  looking  very  well  to-night — her  large  eyes  fiiU  of  lus- 
trous hght,  her  animated  face  dimpling  ever  into  radiant  smiles. 
Her  silken  robe  of  white,  shot  with  palest  rose,  blushed  as  she 
walked:  large  Oriental  pearls  clasped  back  the  floating  brown 
hair,  and  shone  in  cloudy  splendor  on  her  slim  throat.  Not 
handsome — never  that — but  bright  with  health,  youth,  and  per- 
fect happiness. 

Since  the  day  of  Mrs.  Vavasor's  deparlure,  the  days  and 
weeks  lay  behind  her  in  a  golden  mist,  Time  ne\er  flew  so 
fast  before. 

"  How  noiseless  fall  the  fcot  of  time 
That  only  tread  on  llowcrs  !  " 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT. 


125 


villing  to 

p  me  in 

and  pro- 

3  story  I 
'^ad,  and 
le  cliiin-- 
I  nobody 
he  same 
promise, 
it  until  I 
tion  will 
.ling-day. 


c  in  the 
,  fluentlv 


^  indeed, 
enin^  by 
lyed  him- 
rd,  iete-a- 
e  ablaze 
gleaming 
e  assem- 
field  ap- 
e. 

ill  of  lus- 
it  smiles. 
:d  as  she 
g  brown 
It.  Not 
and  per- 


ays  and 
r  flew  so 


The  only  thorn  in  he/  rose-crown  had  been  removed — papa 
looked  contented,  or  if  not  contented,  resigned — Gaston  was 
all  in  tlie  way  of  a  devoted  Romeo  the  most  exacting  Juliet 
could  wish.  Then  there  had  been  the  trousseau  to  order — a 
trip  to  London  to  make,  endless  new  dresses,  and  bonnets,  and 
jiresents,  and  altogether  Christmas  Eve  had  come  with  magical 
(juickness.  On  New  Year's  Eve — just  one  week  from  to- 
rn'j^ht — she  would  be  Gaston's  wife,  and  the  happiest  bride  the 
wide  ear'di  held.  They  were  to  be  married  at  elevei^  in  the 
forenoon  in  Castleford  Church.  Edith  Talbot  to  be  first  brides- 
maid, and  her  brother  chief  ;^roomsman,  and  after  the  wedding 
breakfast,  the  "  happy  pair  "  were  to  start  on  their  honeymoon 
journey — a  long,  delightful  continental  trip,  which  was  to  ex- 
tend far  into  the  spring.  Then  would  come  the  return,  the 
bonfires,  the  bell-ringing,  the  feasting  of  tenantry,  and  she 
and  Gaston  would  settle  down  seigneur  and  chatelaine  of  Scars- 
wood,  and  life  would  go  on  forever  a  i)erpetual  round  of  Lon- 
don seasons,  presentations  at  court,  Paris  winters,  autumns  at 
Scarswood,  operas,  balls,  and  all  the  salt  of  life. 

That  was  the  programme.  "Man  proposes" — you  know 
the  proverb.  The  ante-matrimonial  horizon  just  at  present 
looked  cloudless — a  violet  sky  set  with  gold  stars — not  a  cloud 
in  all  its  dazzling  expanse.  And  five  miles  away  at  Castleford, 
a  man  and  woman  sat  plotting  her  life-long  misery,  disgrace, 
and  ruin. 

Mr.  I^ntree  was  in  great  force  to-night — his  voice,  and  looks, 
his  whole  worldly  wealth,  at  their  best.  He  had  been  the 
world's  football  a  long  time — a  scape-goat  of  society,  fighting 
his  way  inch  by  inch,  and  now  the  goal  was  won.  Fortune  such 
as  he  had  never  dared  dream  of  or  hope  for  had  come  to  him 
— eight;  thousand  a  year,  and  a  title  in  prospective.  And 
all,  thanks  to  his  suave,  olive-skinned  beauty  and  flute-like 
voice. 

"Only  one  week  more,  Gaston,  mo?t  Jtls,''  he  said  to  himself, 
exultantly,  as  he  whirled  homeward  >Wth  the  Talbots,  "  and 
then  let  Fate  do  her  worst — she  can't  oust  me  from  Scarswood 
and  my  wife.  Unless — always  unless — unless  Marie  should 
take  it  into  her  jealous  head  to  come  over  here  and  hunt  me 
lip.  I  wonder  wiiat  she  said  or  did  when  she  got  all  her  let- 
tiM's  back.  I  know  what  she  thought ;  there  could  be  no  two 
opinions  on  that  subject.  Poor,  passionate,  proud  little  beauty  ! 
What  an  unmitigated  scoundrel  1  am,  to  be  sure  !  The  nearer 
the  wedding  day  draws  the  more  I  seem  to  think  of  her — the 


126 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT. 


Hi: 


fonder  I  grow  of  her — all  because  I've  given  her  up  forever,  I 
sui)])Ose." 

But  fondness  for  any  human  creature  was  not  a  weakness 
Mr.  Dantree  would  ever  allow  to  stand  in  his  way  to  fortune. 
Jealous  and  exacting  as  nature  had  made  the  baronet's  daugh- 
ter— her  accepted  lover  gave  her  no  shadow  of  excuse  for 
cither.  He  played  his  role  of  Romeo  to  jierfection  ;  if  it  bored 
him  insufferably  she  never  saw  it ;  and  now — it  was  only  one 
week,  and  once  her  husband,  why  all  this  untiring  devotion 
might  reasonably  cool  down  a  trifle,  and  the  continual  "  tender 
nothings"  of  courtship  give  place  to  the  calm  friendliness  of 
humdrum  married  life. 

"  She  can't  expect  a  fellow  to  dangle  at  her  apron-strings  all 
her  days,"  Mr.  Dantree  thought :  "  if  she  does  she's  mistaken 
— that's  all.  I'm  ready  to  call  all  the  gods  to  witness  that  I 
adore  the  ground  she  treads  on,  before  the  words  are  said,  and 
the  nuptial  knot  tied  ;  but  afterward,  my  bonnibelle,  you'll 
have  to  take  it  for  granted  or  do  without.  Men  love  most,  the 
wiseacres  say,  before  marriage  ;  women  most  after.  How  will 
it  be  with  me,  I  wonder,  who  don't  love  at  all  ?  " 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  the  carriage  of  the  last  guest 
rolled  away  from  the  hospitable  portals  of  Scarswood,  and  the 
"lights  were  fled,  the  garlands  dead,  the  banfjuet  hall  deserted." 
And  Katherine,  trailing  her  brilliant  silk  after  her,  her  jewels 
gleaming  in  llie  fitful  light,  eyes  shining,  and  cheeks  Hushed, 
went  up  to  her  room.  Through  the  oriel  window  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  the  full  winter  midnigh*-  moon  shone  gloriously. 
The  Bloody  Hand,  and  the  crest  of  the  Dangjrtields — a  falcon 
rending  a  dove — shone  out  vividly  through  the  painted  panes. 
A  black  frost  held  the  earth  in  hands  of  iron  ;  the  skeleton 
trees  waved  gaunt,  striped  arms  in  the  park  ;  the  wild  Decem- 
ber wind  whistled  shrilly  up  from  the  coast,  and  overhead 
spread  that  blue,  star-studded,  moonlit  sky.  Katherine  leaned 
against  the  glass  and  gazed  up  at  that  shining  silver  orb,  and 
her  thoughts  drifted  away  from  her  own  supreme  bliss  to  that 
other  Christmas  ever  so  many  hundred  years  ago,  when  the 
first  anthem  was  sung  by  the  angels  over  the  blue  hills  of  Galilee. 

"Katherine!"  Her  father's  door  opened,  ai:!d  her  father's 
voice  called.  "You  will  take  cold  to  a  dead  certainty,  stand- 
ing there.     I  thought  you  had  gone  to  your  room." 

"  I'm  going,  papa — I'm  not  in  the  least  sleepy — I  never  am 
sleepy,  1  think,  on  bright,  moonlight  nights  like  this.  1  wonder 
if  my  brain  is  touched  like  other  lunatics  at  the  full  of  the 


% 


THE    WEDDING   NIGHT. 


127 


L'ver,  I 


akness 

1 

)rtune. 

daiigh- 

ise   for 

t  bored 

« 

ily  one 

;votioii 

^ 

tender 

H 

less  of 

1 

ings  all 
isl;ik('n 

i 

ner's 


moon.     Why  are  you  not  in  bed  ?     Papa  !  "  with  a  sudden  cry 
of  alarm  — a  sudden  spring  forward,  "  you  are  not  well !  " 

Mis  face  was  of  a  strange,  livid  hue,  there  was  a  continual 
nervous  twitching  of  the  muscles,  and  his  eyes  had  a  murky, 
bloodshot  look, 

*'  Papa,  darling!  what  is  it?     Are  you  ill?" 

"  Not  very  well,  I  fear.  I  have  not  been  well  for  days,  but 
I  feel  worse  to-night  than  usual.  And  I  think  \  ought  to  tell 
you — if  anything  should  happen.''  He  juused,  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  in  a  confused  sort  of  way.  "  My  head 
feels  all  wrong  somehow  to-night.  Katherine,  if  you're  not 
sleepy,  come  in — I  have  something  of  iniportance  to  say  to 
you." 

She  followed  him,  some  wonder  and  more  alarm.  His 
face  had  changed  fro.n  its  dull  pallor  to  dark  red,  his  voice 
sounded  incoherent  and  husky.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  She 
entered  his  room,  watching  him  with  wide,  wondering  eyes. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  impatiently  shifting  away  from  her 
glance,  "and  don't  stare  in  that  way,  child.  I  don't  suppose 
it's  anything  to  be  alarmed  about,  only — I  think  I  ought  to  tell. 
You're  going  to  be  married,  and  you  ought  to  know.  Then 
the  burden  and  the  secrecy  will  be  off  my  conscience,  and  you 
can  tell  him  or  not,  as  you  please.  That  will  be  youl-  afitair, 
and  if  he  deserts  you — "  He  stopped  again,  again  pressed  his 
hand  hard  over  his  forehead,  as  though  the  thread  of  his  ideas 
had  broken.  "There's  something  queer  the  matter  with  my 
head,"  he  half  muttered  :  "1  don't  seem  able  to  talk  or  think 
somehow  to-night." 

"  Then  I  wouldn't  try,  papa,"  Katherine  interrupted,  more 
and  more  alarmed  ;  "you  are  looking  dreadfully.  Let  me  ring 
for  Franqois  to  see  you  and  send  for  the  doctor.  I  am  sure 
you  are  not  fit  to  be  up." 

"  No,  no — don't  send — at  least  not  yet.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to-night,  and,  if  I  don't  tell  you  now,  I  may  never 
summon  courage  again.  You  ought  to  know,  child — you 
ought  to  know.  You  are  not  safe  for  an  hour.  It  is  like 
living  over  a  lighted  mine,  until  that  woman  is  dead.  You 
ought  to  tell  him— that  fellow— Dantree,  you  know.  If  he  de- 
serts you,  as  I  said,  better  to  do  it  before  the  wedding  day  than 
after.  I  know  it  is  the  money  he  wants — I  know  he's  a 
coward,  and  a  humbug,  and  a  fortune  hunter,  and  it  may  be  the 
greatest  mercy  for  you,  child,  if  he  does  leave  you  before  the 
wedding  day." 


»«" 


\ 


If! 


l:V 


128 


T//E   WEDDING  NIGHT. 


Kathcrine  started  to  her  feet. 

"  Papa,"  she  cried  passionately,  "this  is  too  bad — too  cruel ! 
I  tliought  yon  were  never  going  'o  speak  .against  Ciaston  again 
— you  told  nie  you  would  not — surely  he  has  done  nothing  to 
deserve  it.  This  day  week  is  my  wedding  day,  and  you  talk  of 
his  deserting  me.  Pai)a,  if  such  a  thing  iiajipened — could  hap- 
pen— I  would  kill  myself— I  tell  you  I  would  !  I  would  nevei 
survive  such  disgrace  !  " 

He  sank  into  a  chair  in  a  dazed,  helpless  sort  of  way. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  he  said  wearily  ;  '*  what  shall  1  do  ?  If  I 
had  only  told  her  years  and  years  ago  !    Now  it  is  too  late." 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him,  pale  \\'\i\\  wonder  and  vague 
alarm. 

"  Told  me  what?  Is  it  the  secret  that  Mrs.  Vavasor  holds? 
VJhy  not  tell  me,  then  ?  Whatever  it  is,  I  can  bear  it — I  can 
bear  anything,  only  your  hard  words  of  Gaston,  your  talk  of  his 
deserting  me.  Tell  me,  my  father — I'm  not  a  child  or  a  cow- 
ard.    I  can  bear  it,  whatever  it  is." 

"You  think  so,  but  you  don't  know — you  don't  know  !  You 
hate  that  woman,  and  you  are  so  proud — so  proud  !  You  can- 
not bear  poverty — you  told  me  that — and  I — what  can  I  do  ? 
I  cannot  save  you  from — " 

His  incoherent  words  died  away — his  head  fell  back.  Kath- 
erine  sprang  to  his  side  with  a  scream  of  terroi.  Another 
instant  and  she  tlew  to  the  bell,  ringing  a  peal  that  nearly  tore 
it  down.     Oh !  what  was  this  ? 

His  face  had  grown  purple — his  whole  form  rigid — what  he 
had  feared  so  long  had  befallen  at  last.  He  was  stricken  with 
ajDoplexy. 

The  room  filled  with  frightened  servants.  After  the  first 
shock,  all  Katherine's  senses  came  back.  She  dispatched  a 
man  at  once  to  Castleford  for  the  family  doctor.  Sir  John  was 
conveyed  to  bed,  undressed,  and  all  the  restoratives  they  knew 
how  to  use  applied.  All  in  vain.  With  the  dawning  of  the 
Christmas  day,  the  stalwart  old  soldier  lay  before  them,  breath- 
ing stentorionsly,  and  cjuite  senseless. 

Doctor  Graves  and  his  attendant,  a  young  man,  Mr.  Otis, 
arrived,  and  pronounced  the  fit  apoplexy  at  once.  They  sent 
the  i)ale  girl  in  the  festal  dress,  the  shining  i:)earls,  and  the  wild, 
wide  eyes  out  of  the  room,  and  did  their  best  for  the  master  of 
that  grand  old  house.  Eat  they  labored  in  vain,  the  long  hours 
wore  away — and  still  Sir  John  lay  rigid  and  senseless  where 
they  had  first  laid  him. 


f 


T 


L 


u 


I 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT 


129 


cruel  I 
111  again 
bing  to 

talk  of 
\hi  hap- 

nevei 


?    If  I 

e." 
[l  vague 

holds  ? 

—I  can 

Ik  of  his 

a  cow- 


V\    You 

ou  can- 
il  do? 

Kath- 
Another 
rly  tore 

ivhat  he 
:en  with 

he  first 
:ched  a 
)hn  was 
y  knew 
;  of  the 
breath- 

r.  Otis, 
ey  sent 
le  wild, 
ister  of 
I  hours 
where 


White  as  a  spirit,  ahnost  as  cold,  almost  as  still,  Kathcrino  went 
up  to  her  room.  She  made  no  attempt  to  change  her  dress,  tore- 
move  her  jewels.  She  had  loved  this  most  indulgent  father  very 
dearly — the  possibility  that  he  could  be  taken  from  her  had 
never  occurred  to  her.  Only  yesterday  morning  he  had  ridden 
with  her  over  the  downs,  only  last  night  he  had  sat  at  the  head 
of  his  table  and  entertained  his  guests.  And  now— he  lay  yon- 
der, stark  and  lifeless — dead  already  for  what  she  knew. 

She  could  not  rest.  She  left  her  room,  and  paced  up  and 
down  the  long  corridor.  He  was  not  dead — she  could  hear  his 
loud  breathing  where  she  walked.  She  could  not  cry  \  tears, 
that  relieve  other  women,  other  girls  of  her  age,  rarely  came  to 
Katherine.  She  felt  cold  and  wretched.  How  drearily  still 
the  great  house  was  I  Would  those  two  doctors  never  open 
that  door  and  let  her  in  to  her  father  I  What  had  he  been  try- 
ing to  tell  her  ? — what  dreadful  secret  was  this  that  involved 
her  life,  and  which  made  his  so  miserable?  He  had  talked  of 
Gaston  deserting  her.  The  wedding  must  be  postponed  now, 
and  postjwncd  weddings  were  always  ominous.  How  was  it 
all  going  to  end  ?  She  shivered  in  her  low-necked  and  short- 
sleeved  dress,  but  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  go  for  a  wrap. 
She  stood  and  looked  out  of  the  oriel  window  once  more. 
Morning  was  breaking — Christmas  morning — red  and  golden, 
and  glorious  in  the  east.  The  first  pink  rays  of  the  sunrise 
glinted  through  the  leafless  trees,  over  terrace  and  glade,  lawn 
and  woodland.  Outside  the  gates  the  carol  singers  were 
blithely  chanting  already  ;  new  life — new  joy  everywhere  with- 
out and  within,  the  lord  of  this  stately  mansion,  of  this  majestic 
park,  lay  dying,  it  might  be. 

But  it  was  not  death.  The  door  opened  presently,  and  the 
pale,  keen  face  of  Mr.  Otis,  the  assistant,  looked  out. 

"  Sir  John  has  recovered  consciousness,  Miss  Dangerfield," 
he  said,  "  and  is  asking  for  you." 

".Thank  God  !"  Katherine's  heart  responded,  but  the  dreary 
oi)pression  did  not  lift.  She  went  into  the  sick  room,  knelt 
down  beside  the  bed  in  her  shining  robes,  and  softly  kissed  the 
helpless  hand. 

"  You  are  better,  papa  ?  " 

]^ut  Doctor  Graves  interrupted  at  once. 

"You  may  remain  with  Sir  John,  Miss  Dangerfield,  but 
neither  of  you  must  speak  a  word.  Danger  is  over  for  the 
present,  but  I  warn  you  the  slightest  excitement  now  or  at  any 
future  time  may  prove  fatal. 


130 


THE    IVEDDTNG  NIGHT. 


\  -J 


The  eyes  of  the  stricken  man  were  fixed  upon  ner  with  a 
strange,  earnest  wistfiihiess.  lie  tried  feebly  to  speak — his  fin- 
gers closed  ahnost  convulsively  over  hers.  She  bent  her  ear  to 
catch  his  words. 

"Send  for  Hammersly — I  must  make  my  will." 

She  kissed  him  soothingly. 

"Yes,  papa,  darling,  but  not  now.  There's  no  hurry,  you 
know — all  present  danger  is  over.  You  are  to  be  very  still, 
and  go  to  sleep.     I  will  stay  by  you  and  watch." 

"  You  will  drink  this,  Sir  John,"  Doctoi  Graves  said,  author- 
itatively, and  tiic  sick  man  swallowed  the  opiate,  and,  with  his 
hand  still  clasi)ed  in  Katherine's,  fell  asleej). 

Dr.  Graves  departed.  Mr.  Otis  remained  ;  Katherine  kept 
her  vigil  by  the  bedside,  very  pale  in  the  sunlight  of  the  new 
day.  Mr.  Otis  watched  her  furtively  from  his  remote  seat. 
Her'"  was  a  striking  face,  he  thought,  a  powerful  face — a  face 
full  of  character. 

"That  girl  will  be  no  common  woman,"  bethought;  "for 
good  or  for  evil,  she's  destined  to  wield  a  powerful  influence. 
You  don't  see  such  a  face  as  that  many  times  in  life." 

The  weary  moments  wore  on.  The  Chr'^tmas  morning 
grew  brighter  and  brighter.  The  house  was  still  very  (piiet. 
Outside  the  wintry  sunshine  si)arkled,  and  the  trees  rattled  in 
the  frosty  wind.  The  pale  watcher  lay  back  in  her  chair,  i)aler 
with  every  passing  moment,  but  never  offering  to  stir.  Ilow 
■white  she  was,  how  weary  she  looked.  The  young  physician's 
heart  went  out  to  her  in  a  great  compassion. 

"  Miss  Dangerfield,  pardon  me,  but  yen  are  worn  out. 
There  is  no  danger  now,  and  you  may  safely  trust  Sir  John 
to  my  care.  Pray  let  me  prevail  upon  you  to  go  and  lie 
down." 

She  opened  her  eyeS;  and  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise, 
and  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  said  gently,  "  but  I  promised  to 
stay  here  until  he  awoke." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said — Miss  Dangerfield' s  tone 
admitted  of  no  dispute.  Mr.  Otis  went  back  to  his  seat,  and 
listened  to  the  ticking  of  the  clock  and  the  sighing  of  the  De- 
cember wind. 

It  was  almost  noon  when  Sir  John  awoke — much  better,  and 
quite  conscious.  His  daughter  had  never  stirred.  She  bent 
over  him  the  i'lstant  his  eyes  opened. 

"Papa,  dear,  you  are  better?" 


t 


f 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT. 


131 


-T  \vi(h  a 

—his  lin- 

ier  ear  to 


pry,  you 
^ery  still, 

I,  autlior- 
with  his 

ine  kept 

ihe  new 

)te   seat. 

: — a  face 

It;  "for 
titiuence. 

morning 
ry  (juiet. 
attled  in 
air,  ])alcr 
r.  Mow 
lysician's 

3rn    out. 

Sir  John 

and  lie 

surprise, 

niscd  to 

Id's  tone 
eat,  and 
the  De- 
ter, and 
he  bent 


"  You  here  still,  Kathie  ?  "  he  said  feebly.  "  Have  you 
never  been  to  bed  at  all  ?  " 

"  No,  Sir  John,"  Mr.  Otis  interrupted,  coming  forward;  "and 
I  must  beg  of  you  to  use  your  influence  to  send  her  there. 
Her  long  vigil  has  quite  worn  her  out,  but  she  would  not 
leave  you." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him. 

♦'I  will  go  now,  papa.  Mr.  Otis  and  Mrs.  Harrison  will  stay 
•with  you.     I  do  feel  a  little  tired,  I  admit." 

Sir  John's  attack  seemed  but  slight,  after  all.  He  kept  his 
bed  all  next  day,  but  on  the  third  was  able  to  sit  up. 

"And  I  don't  see  any  necessity  for  postponing  our  wedding, 
Katherine,"  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  said.  "  Since  by  New  Year's 
Eve  Sir  John  will  be  almost  completely  restored." 

"  lUit  he  will  not  be  able  to  drive  to  the  church  with  me, 
Gaston,"  Katherine  argued.  "  Dr.  Graves  will  not  permit  him 
to  leave  the  house  for  a  fortnight,  and  besides,  *he  excitement." 

"  Katherine,"  her  lover  interrupted  decidedly,  "  I  will  not 
have  our  marriage  postponed — the  most  unlucky  thing  con- 
ceivable. If  the  governor  isn't  able  to  go  to  church  at  Castle- 
ford,  and  give  you  away,  why  let's  have  the  ceremony  here  in 
the  house.  If  the  mountain  can't  come  to  Mahomet,  why 
Mahomet  can  go  to  the  mountain.  A  wedding  in  the  house 
is  a  va:st  deal  pleasanter  to  my  mind  than  in  public  at  Castle- 
ford,  with  all  the  tagrag  of  the  parish  agajie  at  the  bride  and 
groom,  and  all  Castleford  barracks  clanking  their  spurred 
heels  and  steel  scabbards  up  the  aisles,  putting  us  out  of  coun- 
tenance." 

Katherine  laughed. 

"  My  dear  bashful  Gaston  I  the  first  time  I  ever  dreamed 
that  anything  earthly  could  put  you  out  of  countenance  !  Well, 
I'll  ask  papa,  and  it  shall  be  as  he  says." 

Miss  Dangerfield  did  ask  papa,  and  rather  to  her  surprise 
received  an  almost  eager  assent. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said  feverishly.  "  Dantree' s  right — a  post- 
poned marriage  is  the  most  unlucky  thing  on  earth.  We  won't 
postpone  it.  Let  it  be  in  the  house  as  he  suggests,  since  my 
driving  with  you  to  church  is  an  impossibility.  Since  it  must 
be  done,  'twere  well  'twere  done  quickly  !  Let  the  summer 
drawing-room  be  fitted  up,  and  let  the  ceremony  be  performed 
there." 

Mr.  Peter  Dangerfield  had  been  a  daily  visitor  at  Scarswood 
ever  since  his  uncle's  illness — no  nephew  more  devoted,  more 


132 


THE    U'EDDLVG  NIGHT, 


anxious  than  lie.  The  h;uonct  listened  to  his  ciij^er  inquirieg 
after  his  health,  his  son-like  anxiety,  with  a  cynical  smile. 

"If  I  were  dead  there  would  be  one  the  less  between  him 
and  the  title — yoa  understand.-  1  have  no  doubt  Peter  is  anx- 
ious tliat — I  should  never  recover." 

•*  Somethin^^'s  happened  to  Peter,  papa,"  answered  Kather- 
ine  tIioup;lilfully,  "he's  got  quite  a  new  way  of  talking  and 
carrying  himself  of  late.  He  looks  as  if  some  great  good  fort- 
une had  befallen  him.       Now  what  do  you  suppose  it  can  be  ?" 

"(Ireat  good  fortune,"  Sir  John  repealed,  with  rather  a 
startled  fiice.  "  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,  Katherine.  I 
wonder,"  very  slowly  this,  "if — if  he — has  been  in  comnnniica- 
tioii  with  Mrs.  Vavasor  since  her  departure." 

I'or  Mrs.  Vavasor's  |)resence  in  Castleford  was  still  a  pro- 
found secret.  She  had  taken  lodgings  in  the  remotest  and 
(luielest  suburb  of  the  town.  She  never  ventured  abroad  by 
day,  and  had  assumed  an  alias.  She  and  Mr.  Dangerfield  kejit 
tryst  in  the  evenings,  in  lonely  lanes  and  deserted  places,  and 
no  one  save  himself  drean'ied  of  her  presence. 

But  three  days  now  to  the  wedding  d;  /.  and  those  three  flew 
apace.  It  had  been  arranged  that  since,  contrary  to  all  prece- 
dent, the  marriage  was  to  be  performed  at  Scarswood,  it  should 
also  take  place  in  the  evening,  to  be  followed,  in  the  good  olu- 
fashioned  way,  by  a  supper  and  ball,  and  the  bridal  party  start 
next  day  for  the  Continent.  The  hour  was  fixed  for  ten,  and 
half  the  county  invited. 

Sir  John's  progress  toward  strength  was  very  slow.  Some 
secret  anxiety  seemed  preying  on  his  mind  and  kcjping  him 
back.  He  watched  his  idolized  darling  flying  up  and  down 
stairs,  dashing,  bright  as  the  sunshine  itself,  in  and  out  of  the 
room,  sinjing  like  a  skylark  in  her  perfect  bliss,  and  he  shrank 
from  the  sight  as  though  it  gave  him  positive  pain. 

"How  can  I  tell  her?"  he  thought;  "how  can  I  ever  tell 
her?     And  yet  I  ought — I  ought." 

Once  or  twice  he  feebly  made  the  attempt,  but  Katherine 
put  him  down  immediately  in  her  decided  way. 

"  Not  a  word  now,  papa — I  won't  have  it.  I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  nasty,  annoying  secrets  two  days  before  my  wedding, 
and  have  my  i)eace  of  mind  disturbed  in  this  way.  If  I've  got 
to  hear  this  disagt^eeable  thing,  let  me  wait  imtil  the  honey- 
moon is  over — Gaston  will  help  me  bear  it  then — you  tried  to 
tell  me  Christmas  Eve,  and  brought  on  a  fit  of  apoplexy ;  and 
now,  contrary  to  all  medical  commands,  you  want  to  begin  ov(;i 


% 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT. 


133 


ii|uin(ja 

cii  him 
is  mix- 


f 


\ 


again,  ami  bring  on  another.  r>iit  I'm  mistress  of  the  situation 
at  present,  and  I  won't  hsten.  So  set  your  miml  at  rest,  and 
don't  wear  that  gloomy  countenance  on  the  eve  of  your  only 
daughter's  marriage." 

He  was  too  feeble  to  resist.  lie  held  her  to  him  a  moment, 
and  looked  into  the  happy  young  face  with  a  weary  sigh. 

"  I  suppose  few  fathers  look  very  jo)'ous  on  the  eve  of  an 
only  daughter's  n)arri;ige,  and  I  have  greater  reason  than  you 
dream  of  to  look  gloomy.  lUit  let  it  be  as  you  say — let  us 
postpone  the  evil  hour  as  long  as  we  can." 

Tlie  last  day  came — the  day  before  New  Year's  Eve.  The 
bride  elect  had  been  busier  even  than  usual  all  day.  Mr. 
Dantree  dined  and  spent  the  eve'Mug  there  alone.  They  were 
both  very  grave,  very  quiet — that  long,  peaceful  evening,  tlic 
last  of  her  youth  and  her  happiness,  never  faded  from  the  girl's 
memory.  The  picture,  as  she  saw  it  then,  haunted  her  to  her 
dyin^  hour — the  big,  lamplit  drawing-room — her  father's  (luiet 
figure  lying  back  in  his  easy  chair  befoje  the  firO — her  lover  at 
the  piano  [)laying  soft  melancholy  airs,  and  she  herself  nestling 
in  a  dormeuse,  listening  to  the  music,  and  his  whispered  words 
— the  "  sweet  nothings"  of  courtship.  She  followed  him  out 
into  the  grand  portico  entrance  of  the  house  to  say  good-by  for 
the  last  time.  The  cold,  white  moon  sailed  up  the  azure,  the 
stars  we're  numberless,  the  trees  cast  long,  black  shadows  in  the 
ivory  light.  The  night  air  sighed  faintly  in  the  woodland  ; 
something  in  the  still,  solenm  beauty  of  the  dying  night  fdled 
the  girl's  heart  with  a  sense  almost  of  pain. 

"The  sun  will  shine  to-morrow,"  Gaston  whispered  ;  "and 
'  blessed  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines  on  ! '  Good-night, 
my  darling,  for  the  last  time." 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  a  moment — for  the  last  time ! 

The  last  time  1  And  no  foreboding — of  ad  that  was  so  near 
at  hand  came  to  her  as  she  stood  th^rc. 

The  promise  of  the  night  did  not  hold  good.  Mr.  Dantree's 
prediction  as  to  the  sunshine  was  not  destined  to  be  fulfilled. 
New  Year's  Eve  dawned  cloudy,  cold,  and  overcast.  A  lon«g, 
lamentable  blast  soughed  up  from  the  sea,  the  low-lying  sky 
frowned  darkly  over  the  black,  frost-bound  earth. 

"AVe'rc  going  to  have  a  storm,"  Sir  John  said;  "our  guests 
must  reach  us  through  a  tempest  to-night." 

The  storm  broke  at  noon — rain,  sleet,  and  roaring  wind. 
Katherme  shivered  as  she  listened  to  the  wild  whistling  of  the 
blast.     She,  usually  the  least  nervous  and  superstitious  of  hu- 


^ 

% 


134 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT. 


r';! 


I  n 


man  beings,  felt  little  cold  chills  creeping  over  her,  as  she 
harkenetl  to  its  wintry  howls. 

"  It  sounds  like  the  cry  of  a  banshee,"  she  said,  with  a  shud- 
der, to  Edith  Talbot.  "Such  a  wild,  black,  sleety,  wretched 
winter  day  I  And  last  night  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky ! 
P^dith,  do  you  believe  in  omens  ?  " 

"  1  believe  this  is  a  disagreeable  day,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of 
December  days  to  be,  and  that  you  are  a  nervous  goose  for  the 
first  time  in  your  life.  You  don't  suppose  Mr.  Dantree  is  sugar 
or  salt  to  n;elt  in  the  rain,  or  a  feather  for  the  wind  to  blow 
away.  Don't  be  so  restless  and  hdgety,  Kathie,  or  you'll  make 
me  as  nervous  as  yourself." 

The  short,  dark,  winter  afternoon  dragged  on. 

With  the  fall  of  the  night  the  storm  seemed  to  increase. 
The  roar  of  the  winds  deepened ;  the  dull  thunder  of  the  surf 
on  the  shore  reached  them ;  the  trees  waved  in  the  high  gale 
like  human  tilings  in  pain  ;  and  the  ceaseless  sleet  lashed  the 
glass. 

"  An  awful  night  for  a  wedding,"  even  the  servants  whispered. 
"  No  wonder  poor  Miss  Katherine  looks  like  a  ghost." 

She  was  pale  beyond  all  the  ordinary  pallor  of  bridehood — 
strangely  restless,  strangely  silent. 

Darkness  fell,  the  whole  house  was  lit  up  ;  flowers  bloomed 
everywhere  as  though  it  had  been  midsummer :  warmth  and 
luxury  everywhere  within  contrasted  with  the  travail  of  the 
dying  year.  Under  the  hands  of  her  maid,  Katherine  sat  pas- 
sive to  all  changes.  The  supreme  hour  of  her  life  had  come, 
and  in  every  wail  of  wind,  every  dash  of  the  frozen  rain,  she 
seemed  to  hear  the  warning  words  of  her  old  nurse  :  False  as 
fair  !     False  as  fair  ! 

Eight  o'clock.  The  Rector  of  Castleford  and  his  curate  had 
arrived.  Nine !  The  musicians  had  come,  and  the  earliest  of 
the  nuptial  guests  ;  the  roll  of  carriages  could  be  heard  through 
the  tunudt  of  the  storm.  Half-[)ast  nine  !  And  "  I  wonder  if 
Claston  has  yet  arrived  ?  "   Katherine  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  for  over  an  hour.  Her 
attendant  bridesmaids,  five  besides  Miss  Talbot,  were  all  there. 
The  dressing-rooms  were  bright  with  fair  girls,  floating  tulle  and 
laces,  and  fragrant  with  flowers.  Miss  Talbot  and  the  French 
maid  were  alone  with  the  bride.  The  last  touch  had  been 
given  to  the  toilet.  The  robe  of  dead-white  silk  swept  in  its 
richness  far  behind,  the  tall,  slim  figure  looked  taller  and  slim- 
mer than  ever,  the  virginal  orange  blossoms  crowned  the  long, 


THE    WEDDING  NIGHT. 


135 


as  she 

a  shud- 
retched 
he  sky ! 

aturc  of 
for  the 
IS  sugar 
to  blow 
'11  make 


ncrease. 
the  surf 
u'gh  gale 
hed  the 

lispered. 

ehood — 

bloomed 
'nnh  and 
il  of  the 
;  sat  pas- 
id  come, 
rain,  she 
False  as 

irate  had 
arlicst  of 
1  through 
wonder  if 

xx.     Her 

all  there, 
tulle  and 
e  French 
lad  been 
ept  in  its 
and  slim- 
the  long, 


flP 


light-brown  hair,  the  bridal  veil  floated  like  a  mist  over  all. 
The  last  jewel  was  placed,  the  last  ribbon  lied,  the  last  fall  of 
lace  arranged.  She  stood  before  the  mirror  fair,  pale,  pensive 
— a  bride  ready  for  the  altar. 

A  quarter  of  ten  !  The  Swiss  clock,  telling  of  the  quarters, 
startled  them.  How  the  moments  flew — how  fast  the  guests 
were  arriving  through  the  storm.  The  roll  of  carriages  was  al- 
most incessant  now,  and  lifting  her  dreamy  eyes  Katheriue  re- 
peated her  inquiry  :   "  I  wonder  if  Oaston  has  come  ?  " 

"What  a  question!"  cried  Miss  Talbot.  "A  bridegroom 
late,  and  that  bridegroom  Mr.  Dantrce  of  all  men.  Of  course, 
he  has  come,  and  is  waiting  in  a  fever  of  impatience  down- 
stairs.    Ninon,  run  arid  see." 

The  French  girl  went,  and  came  flying  back  breathlessly. 

"  Mademoiselle,  how  strange.  Monsieur  Dantree  has  not 
arrived.  Monseigneur,  the  abbe,  is  ready  and  waiting — all 
the  guests  are  assembled,  but  mon  Dicu  !  the  bridegroom  is 
late  ! " 

Miss  Talbot  looked  at  her  friend.  Neither  spoke  nor  moved. 
The  flock  of  bridesmaids,  a  "  rose-bud  garden  of  girls,"  came 
floating  in  with  their  misty  drapery,  their  soft  voices  and  sub- 
dued laughter.     It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  the  wedding  hour. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Ninon  opened  it,  and  old  Sir 
John,  white  as  ashes  and  trembling  on  his  staff,  entered  and 
ajjproached  his  daughter. 

"  Katherine,  Dantree  has  not  come." 

"  I  know  it,  father.     Something  has  happened." 

Her  voice  was  quite  steady,  but  a  gray,  ashen  terror  blanched 
her  face. 

"  Had  you  not  better  send  to  Morecambe?"  Edith  Talbot 
interposed.  '■  He  was  quite  well  when  I  left  this  morning. 
Has  George  arrived  ?  " 

"  Your  brother  is  here,  Miss  Talbo- ." 

"  And  what  does  he  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  the  point.  I?efore  dark  Dantree  left  him  to  go 
to  his  room  and  dress.  Your  brother  when  starting  for  here 
sent  him  word,  and  found  his  room  deserted.  Tak'ng  it  for 
granted  he  wished  to  be  alone,  and  had  left  for  Scarswood  be- 
fore him,  your  brother  came  over  at  once.  He  was  astonished 
when  he  arrived  at  not  finding  him  here." 

And  then  dead  silence  fell.     Wjiat  did  it  mean  ? 
.     Below  the  guests  had  gathered  in  groups,  whispering  omi- 
nously;  in  the  "  bridal  bower"  bride  and  bridesmaids  looked  at 


•-'•"-^"■"■''•" 


135 


THE    TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


I 


!l 


ii; 


I 

I 


each  other's  pale  faces  and  never  spoke.  One  by  one  the 
moments  told  off.  A  quarter  past  ten,  and  still  no  bride- 
groom ! 

Then  all  at  once  wheels  dashed  up  to  the  door — in  the  en- 
trance hall  there  was  the  sudden  bustle  of  an  arrival.  Kathe- 
rine's  heart  gave  one  great  bound;  and  Edith  Talbot,  unable 
to  endure  the  suspense,  unable  to  look  at  her  friend's  tortured 
face,  turned  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

"  Wait !  "  she  said.     *'  I  will  be  back  in  a  moment." 

She  flew  down  the  stairs.  Some  one  had  arrived- -a  gentle- 
man— but  not  Gaston  Dantree.  The  new-comer,  pale,  breath- 
less, eager,  was  only  Peter  Dangerfield. 

But  he  might  bring  news — he  looked  as  though  he  did.  She 
was  by  his  side  in  a  moment,  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  said.  "  Has  anything  happened  to  Mr. 
Dantree  ?  " 

"Yes,  Dangerfield,"  exclaimed  Captain  De  Vere,  coming 
forward.  "As  second-best  man  I  have  a  right  to  know. 
Shorten  the  agony,  if  possible,  and  out  with  it.  What's  up  ? 
The  hour  is  past  and  the  bride  is  waiting,  where  the  devil  is 
the  bridegroom  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  TELLING  OF  THE  SECRET. 

HERE  was  the  bridegroom  ? 

Gaston  Dantree  bade  good-by  to  Katherine  Danger- 
field,  and  rode  down  that  noble  avenue  of  elms  leading 
to  the  ponderous  gates.  His  horse's  footsteps  rang 
clear  and  sharp  through  the  still,  frosty  air,  the  silvery  mist  of 
moonlight  b  tthed  all  things  in  its  pale,  mystic  glow. 

He  i)auscd  an  instant  to  lookback,  ere  he  rode  away.  What 
a  fair  domain  it  was — what  a  stately  sweep  of  j)ark,  and  glade, 
and  woodlaiid-^fairer  than  ever  in  the  pearly  light  of  the  Christ- 
mas moon.  How  noble  the  old  house  looked,  with  its  turrets, 
its  peaked  gables,  its  massive  stack  of  chinmcys.  And  to- 
morrow all  this  would  be — his — he  an  outcast  of  the  New  York 
streets. 


THE    TELLING   OF  THE  SECRET. 


^Z7 


ne   the 
bride- 

the  en- 

Kathe- 

unable 

ortured 


gentle- 
breath- 

id.    She 

1  to  Mr. 

coining 

know. 

at's  up  ? 

DEVIL  is 


Daiiger- 
s  leading 
sps  rang 


y  m 


ist  of 


y.  What 
id  glade, 
e  Christ- 
s  turrets, 
And  to- 
ew  York 


He  laughed  softly,  exultantly  to  himself,  as  he  turned  and 
rode  swiftly  away, 

"It's  better  to  be  born  lucky  than  rich — it's  better  to  be 
born  handsome  than  lucky.  A  clear  complexion  and  a  set  of 
regular  features,  a  tenor  voice,  and  insinuating  manners  have 
(lone  more  for  me  than  they  do  for  most  men.  They  have 
made  my  fortune.  Half  the  men  and  women  in  the  world  are 
fools  at  L)est,  and  don't  k-.iow  how  to  use  the  gifts  with  w^hich 
nature  endows  them.  I  was  born  in  the  gutter,  brought  up 
in  the  streets,  adopted  out  of  charity,  turned  out  for  my  short- 
comings, to  starve,  or  steal,  to  go  to  State  prison,  or — become 
the  literary  hack  of  a  sporting  ]-)a]jer,  ill-i)aid,  and  ill-used. 
And  71070 — to-morrow  is  Uiy  wedding  day,  and  a  baronet's 
daughter  and  the  heiress  of  eight  thousand  a  year  to  be  my 
bride.  Oaston  Dantree,  I  congratulate  you  again,  and  still 
again,  you're  one  of  the  very  cleverest  fellows  1  ever  knew 
in  the  whole  course  of  my  life." 

And  then,  as  Mr.  Dantree  rode  over  ti.'^  moonlit  high- 
road, he  astonished  belated  wayfarers  by  uplifting  his  voice 
in  melody,  so  sweet  and  clear,  that  even  the  sleej^ing 
'ightingales,  had  there  been  any  in  r3ecember,  might  have 
awakened  to  listen  and  envy.  The  wheels  of  the  world  were 
greased  on  their  axles  for  him.  A  bride  and  a  fortune,  and 
a  life  of  perpetual  pleasure  lay  beyond  to-morrow's  sunrise. 
There  was  only  one  thorn  in  all  his  bed  of  roses — Marie. 

"If  she  shouldcome,  after  all!  and  Satan  himself  1  believe 
can  never  tell  what  a  woman  may  do.  You  may  be, as  certain 
as  that  you  live  she  will  take  one  course,  and  ten  to  one  she 
takes  the  direct  opposite.  For  Marie  De  Tansac  to  pursue  any 
man,  though  he  sat  on  the  throne  of  the  Caesars,  is  the  most 
unlikely  thing  on  earth,  and  for  that  very  reason  she  may  turn 
up  now.  If  she  should  ap[)ear  to-morrow,  and  forbid  the 
banns  I  Such  things  happen  sometimes.  Or,  if  she  should  turn 
up  a  year  hence,  and  proclaim  my  secret  and  her  wrongs  ! 
And  bigamy's  a  devilish  ugly  word  !  " 

The  shadow  of  the  avenger  pursued  Mr.  Dantree  into 
dreamland.  His  visions  this  ante-nuptial  night  were  all  dark 
and  ominous.  He  fell  asleep,  to  see  the  face  of  the  woman 
he  feared,  dark  and  menacing ;  he  awoke,  and  fell  asleep 
again,  to  see  it  pallid  and  despairing,  wild  with  woman's  utmost 
woe.  He  started  out  of  bed  at  last,  at  some  abnormal  hour 
in  the  dismal  dawn,  with  a  curse  upon  his  lips.  Sleeping  or 
waking,  the  face  of  Marie  De  Lansac   haunted  him    like  an 


'"■^■"■~'- 


\M 


I 


i 


138 


T//E    TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


avenging  ghost.  The  storm  had  come  with  the  new  day — rain 
and  sleet  beat  the  r;'i^ss,  the  wind  howk^d  dismally  around 
the  house  and  up  and  down  the  draughty  passages.  Mr. 
Dantree  scowled  at  tlie  distant  prospect — atmospheric  influ- 
ences did  not  affect  him  nuich  as  a  rule,  but  they  affected  him 
today.  I  suppose  the  least  sensitive  of  human  beings  likes 
bright  sunshine,  balmy  breeze  s,  and  cloudless  skies  for  his 
wedding  day.  Mr.  Dantree  cursed  the  weather — cursed  the 
])ursuing  memory  that  drove  him  from  his  bed — cursed  his  own 
folly  in  letling  superstitious  fears  trouble  him,  and  hii\ing 
finished  his  litany,  produced  a  smoke-colored  bottle  of  P'rench 
brandy,  a  case  of  manillas,  and  flung  himself  into  an  easy 
chair  before  the  still  smouldering  fire.  He  primed  himself  with 
eau  de  vie  until  the  breakfast  bell  rang,  and  then  descended 
to  meet  his  host  and  his  sister,  and  get  the  vapors  of  the  night 
dispelled  in  their  society. 

Miss  Talbot  departed  for  Scarswood  almost  immediately 
after  breakfast.  Mr.  Dantree  escorted  her  to  the  carriage,  and 
moodily  watched  her  drive  away. 

"I  suppose  I.  am  to  give  your  love  to  Katherine?"  the 
young  lady  said,  gayly  ;  "and  I  suppose  we  won't  see  you 
until  the  hour.  'J'ry  and  wear  a  less  dolorous  face,  signor, 
when  you  do  [)resent  yourself.  It's  a  serious  occasion,  beyond 
doubt,  but  not  even  matrimony  can  warrant  so  gloomy  a  coun- 
tenance as  that." 

How  the  long  interminable  hours  of  that  day  wore  on,  Gas- 
ton Dantree  never  afterward  knew.  Something  was  going  to 
happen — he  simply  felt  that — what,  he  did  not  know.  Marie 
might  come,  or  she  might  not ;  but  whether  or  no,  something 
would  happen.  The  dark  sleety  hours  dragged  slowly  along 
— he  smoked  furiously — he  drank  more  brandy  than  ^\as  at  all 
prudent  or  usual  for  bridegrooms — he  went  in  and  out  in  a 
restless  fever,  that  would  not  let  him  sit  down.  He  paced  up 
and  down  the  leafless  ais'.es,  the  sleet  driving  sharply  in  his 
face,  the  keen  wind  piercing  him,  for  he  was  of  a  chilly  nature. 
Were  presentiments  true  ?  None  had  ever  troubled  him  before. 
Was  it  a  guilty  conscience  ?  It  was  the  first  time  he  ever 
realized  he  had  a  conscience  ;  or  was  it  a  worse  demon  than 
either — the  gloomy  fiend  of — indigestion  ? 

"A  sluggish  liver  has  made  men  blow  their  brains  out  be- 
fore now,  and  a  dyspei)tic  stomach  has  seen  ghosts.  Presenti- 
ments are  sentimental  humbugp — it's  the  heavy  dinners  at 
Scarswood,  and  the  French  cool.ery  at  Morecambe,  combined 


■^ 


THE   TELLING   OF  THE  SECRET. 


139 


ay — ram 
around 
2s.     ]\Ir. 
ic  in  fill- 
eted him 
ngs  likes 
for   his 
rsed  the 
his  own 
ha\iiig 
French 
an  easy 
1  self  with 
escended 
the  night 

:)iediatcly 
'age,  and 

le?"  the 
see  you 
e,  sign  or, 
1,  beyond 
y  a  coua- 

on,  Gas- 
going  to 
\  Marie 
omething 
^vly  along 
VA  as  at  all 
out  in  a 
l)aced  up 
•ly  in  his 
ly  nature. 
m  before, 
he  ever 
lion  than 

s  out  be- 
Prescnti- 
nners  at 
lonibined 


with  a  leaden  sky,  and  a  miserable  December  day.  If  the 
infernally  long  day  were  ended,  and  this  hour  come,  I  should 
feel  ail  right,  I  know." 

His  host  watched  him  curiously  from  the  window,  wander- 
ing about  in  the  storm  like  an  unquiet  s[)irit.  bridegrooms 
may  be  restless  as  a  ru'e  on  the  hapi)y  day,  but  not  such  rest- 
lessness as  this. 

"There's  something  on  that  fellow's  mind,"  the  young  Sussex 
squire  thought.  "  He  has  the  look  to  day  of  a  nan  who  is 
afraid,  and  1  don't  think  he's  a  coward  as  a  rule.  I've  thought 
from  the  first  this  marriage  would  be  a  deucedly  bad  job,  and 
it's  no  end  of  a  pity.  She's  such  a  trump  of  a  girl — litde 
Kathie — no  nonsense  about  her,  you  know ;  rides  to  hounds 
like  a  born  Nimrod-ess,  dances  like  a  fairy,  plucky,  and  thor- 
oughbred from  top  to  toe.  And  she's  going  to  thiow  herself 
away  on  this  duffer,  for  no  reason  under  heaven  but  that  he's 
got  a  good-looking  face.  Hang  it  all !  Why  did  I  ever  fetch 
liinj  down  to  Morecambe,  or  why  need  Katherine  Dangerfield 
be  such  a  little  fool  ?  Who's  to  tell  us  the  fellow  hasn't  a  wife 
already  out  in  New  Orleans?" 

Sometime  after  noon  the  bridegroom  elect  flung  himself  on 
his  bed  and  fell  heavily  asleep.  He  did  not  dream  this  time  ; 
he  slept — for  hours — the  beneficial  effect  of  French  brandy, 
no  doubt.'  The  short  dark  day  had  faded  entirely  out — the 
candles  were  lit,  and  Squire  Talbot's  man  stood  over  him  ad- 
juring him  to  rise. 

"lieg  parding,  sir,  for  disturbing  you,  but  master's  borders, 
sir,  and  it's  'alf  after  six,  Mr.  Dantree,  sir,  and  time,  master 
f.ays,  to  get  up  and  dress.  And  master's  borders,  sir,  is,  that 
I'm  to  bassist  you." 

Mr.  Dantree  leaped  from  the  bed.  Half-past  six,  and  time 
to  dress.  No  more  endless  hours,  to  think  c.?A  fidget, — that 
was  a  comfort,  at  least. 

"How's  the  weather,  now,  Lewis?"  he  asked.  "Storm 
held  up  any  ?  No — I  see  it  has  not— rather  worse,  if  anything. 
Where's  the  squire?" 

"  In  his  hapartment,  sir — dressing,  sir.  Permit  me  to  do 
that,  Mr.  Dantree,  sir — if  you  please.  Dinner's  to  be  arf  an 
hour  later  than  husual,  sir,  on  this  occasion — you'll  'ave  just 
time  to  dress  and  no  more." 

Lewis  was  an  adept  in  his  business.  At  half-past  seven  Mr. 
Dantree  descended  to  dinner  in  full  evening  suit — white  waist- 


1 


■UHOI 


'I 

If 


lih 


if 


Si 


M 


'M 


140 


T//£   TELLING    OF   THE  SECRET. 


coat,  diamond  studs,  dress  coat,  shiny  boots — robed  for  the 
sacrifice  ! 

He  and  the  squire  dined  tctc-h-tcte.  Neither  ate  much — both 
were  nervous  and  silent. 

"What  the  deuce  ever  made  me  bring  the  follow  down?"  the 
squire  kept  thinking,  moodily,  casting  gloomy  glances  athwart 
the  tall  epergne  of  tlowers  l)etween  them.  And  "  Will  any- 
thing hap[)en  after  all  ?  "  the  bridegroom  kept  saying  over  and 
over;  "will  the  heiress  of  Scarswood  be  my  wife  to-morrow 
morning,  or  will  something  prevent  it  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and 
expose  me.      It  would  be  just  my  usual  infernal  luck." 

He  went  back  to  his  room  after  dinner.  They  had  not 
lingered,  and  it  was  still  only  eight  o'clock.  A  quarter  before 
ten  would  be  early  enough  to  arrive  r  t  Scarswood,  and  run  the 
gauntlet  of  threescore  curious  eyes.  "I  wish  it  were  over," 
he  exclaimed,  aloud,  almost  savagely.  "  I  wouldn't  undergo 
such  an  ordeal  again  for  all  the  heiresses  in  Great  Britain." 

**  It  is  a  nervous  business,"  a  voice  in  the  doorway  re- 
sponded ;  "but  take  courage.  There's  many  a  slip,  you  know, 
and  though  it  wants  but  two  hours  to  the  time,  you  may  escape 
the  matrimonial  noose  after  all." 

Gaston  Dantree  swung  round  with  an  oath.  There,  in  the 
doorway,  stood  Peter  Dangertield. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Dantree,"  the  lawyer  said,  glibly, 
coming  in,  and  shutting  the  door.  "  You  don't  look  best  pleased 
to  see  me,  but  <hat  is  not  to  be  wondered  at." 

"  Where  the  d-^vil  did  you  spring  from  ?  "  Mr.  Dantree  de- 
manded, angrily. 

"  I  sprang  from  now'here — I've  given  up  gymnastics.  I 
drove  over  from  Castleford,  in  the  rain,  on  important  business 
— important  business  to  you.  A  quarter  past  eight,"  he  drew 
out  his  watch,  "and  I  see  you  are  all  dressed  for  the  ceremony. 
That  gives  us  an  hour  and  three  quarters — plenty  of  time  for 
what  I  want  you  to  do." 

"What — you — want — me — to — do!  Mr.  Dangerfield;  I 
confess  I  am  at  a  loss  to — " 

"  To  understand  me — exactly — quite  natural  that  you  should 
and  all  that.  I'll  explnin.  Circumstances  have  come  to  light 
concerning  Sir  John  Dangerfield  and — well — and  the  young 
lady  you  are  going  to  marry.  As  a  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Dan- 
tree, I  consider  it  would  be  a  shameful  deception  to  let  the 
marriage  go  en  while  you  are  in  ignorance  of  those  circumstances. 
Sir,   you    have    been    grossly  deceived— we  have   all    been, 


THE    TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


for   the 
:h— both 

,n?"  the 
a  til  wart 
[Vill  any- 
|ovcr  and 

)-nioi"row 
|iour,  and 

had  not 
or  before 
d  run  the 
re  over," 

undergo 
tain." 
orway  re- 
ou  know, 
ay  escape 

re,  in  the 

lid,  glibly, 
;st  pleased 

intree  de- 

astics.  I 
t  business 
'  he  drew 
:eremony. 
f  time  for 

srfield;    I 

on  should 
e  to  light 
he  young 
Mr.  Dun- 
to  let  the 
instances, 
ill    been. 


141 


and — but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  explain.  Thereby  hangs  a 
tale,  and  all  that — which  I  don't  wish  to  tell.  The  person  who 
told  me  is  waiting  at  Casdeford  to  tell  you.  I  drove  here  at 
once — my  trap  is  waiting  out..ide  now.  I  made  my  way  to 
your  room  unannounced.  I  know  the  house,  and  1  want  )-ou 
to  put  on  your  hat  and  great-coat,  and  come  with  me  to  Castle- 
ford  at  once." 

Gaston  Dantree  stood  very  pale,  listening  to  this  lengthy 
and  rapid  harangue.  His  jiresentiments  were  all  true,  then — ■ 
something  was  going  to  occur.  At  the  last  hour  the  glittering 
prize  for  which  he  had  fought  and  won  was  to  be  snatched 
from  him.  His  lips  were  set  hard,  and  there  was  a  dull  red 
glow  not  good  to  see  in  his  black  eyes.  But  he  kept  his  tem- 
})er — under  all  circumstances  it  was  the  rule  of  his  life  to  keep 
that. 

"  Mr.  Dangerfield,"  he  said,  "  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  open 
the  mysteries  a  little  ?  Your  speech  sounds  melodramatic — 
and  1  don't  care  for  melodrama  off  the  boards.  Why  am  I  to 
goto  Castleford  ?  What  are  the  circumstances?  Whom  am 
I  to  meet  ? — and  how  have  we  all  been  deceived  ?  Do  you 
wish  to  insinuate  anything  against  Miss  Dangerfield?  " 

"  Not  a  word — not  a  syllable.  She  is  blameless  and  I  don't 
wish  to  stop  your  marriage — Heaven  forbid  !  No  one  will  wish 
you  joy,  two  hours  hence,  when  the  ceremony  is  over,  more 
sincerely  than  I." 

Gaston  Dantree  looked  at  him,  staggered  a  litUe.     The  mar- 


He  drew  a  long  tense 


riage  was  not  to  be  stopped,  then 
breath  of  relief. 

"  This  is  all  very  strange.  I  wish  you  would  explain.  I'll  go 
with  you  to  Castleford— it  will  kill  the  intervening  time  as  well 
as  anything  else — but,  I'd  rather  not  go  in  the  dark." 

*'  You  must.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Dantree,  it  is  necessary. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  tell  you — I  am  bound  by  oath. 
Come  with  me — come  !  1  swear  you  shall  be  at  Scarswood  by 
ten  o'clock." 

For  a  m.oment  Dantree  stood  irresolute.  Then  curiosity 
overcame  every  other  feeling.  He  seized  his  hat  and  coat  with 
a  slight  laugh. 

"  15e  it  so,  then.  Lead  on,  as  they  say  in  novels,  I  follow — ■ 
and  my  good  fellow,  drive  like  the  very  deuce." 

^  He  ran  lightly  downstairs—Peter"  Dangerfield  followed. 
There  was  a  tlush  on  the  lawyer's  sallow  parchment  cheeks,  a 
fire  in  his  dim,  near-sighted  eyes,  all  unusual  there.     They  met 


^: 


i 


142 


7'J/E   TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


\\\ 


no  one.  The  squire  was  still  in  his  "  liaparlmcnt,"  (lie  servants 
were  busy.  The  giglanii)s  of  Mr.  DangcrficUrs  trap  loomed  like 
two  fiery  eyes  in  the  stormy  blackness.  Dantree  leaped  in, 
Dan[];ertield  followed,  snatched  up  the  reins,  and  sped  away 
like  the  wind. 

It  was  a  dead,  silent  drive.  It  was  all  Peter  Dangerfield 
could  do  to  hold  the  reins  and  make  his  way  through  the  double 
darkness  of  nigh.t  and  storm.  Gaston  Dantree  sat  with  folded 
arms  waiting.  What  was  he  to  hear? — where  was  he  going? 
— whom  was  he  to  see  ?  A  strange  adventure  this,  surely,  on  a 
man's  wedding  night. 

The  lights  of  Castleford  gleamed  through  the  sleet,  the  dull 
cannonading  of  the  sea  on  the  coast  came  to  them  above  the 
shrieks  of  the  wind.  In  five  minutes  they  had  driven  up  before 
an  inn  : — the  two  men  s[)rang  out,  a  hostler  took  charge  of  the 
conveyance,  and  Peter  Dangerfield,  with  a  brief  "This  way, 
Dantree,"  sprang  swiftly  up  the  stairs,  and  rapped  at  a  door  on 
the  first  landing. 

It  was  opened  instantly,  and  Gaston  Dantree  saw — Mrs. 
Vavasor. 

She  was  magnificently  dressed  to-night.  A  rich  robe  of 
purple  silk,  en  irame,  swept  behind  her — diamonds  flashed  on 
neck  and  fingers — and  white  perfumy  roses  nestled  in  the 
glossy  masses  of  satin  black  hair.  The  rouge  bloomed  its 
brightest,  the  enamel  glittered  with  alabaster  dazzle,  the  almond 
eyes  were  longer,  brighter,  blacker  than  ever,  and  that  peculiar 
smile  on  her  squirrel-shaped  mouth  was  never  so  radiant  before. 

"  Vou  did  not  expect  to  see  me,  Mr.  Dantree,  did  you  ? 
You  didn't  know  I  have  been  in  Castleford  a  whole  week. 
And  I've  come  for  the  wedding  all  the  way  from  Paris.  I 
crossed  the  channel  at  the  risk  of  expiring  in  the  agonies  of  sea- 
sickness, I  b'-aved  your  beastly  British  climate,  I  have  buried 
myself  alive  a  whole  week  here,  without  a  soul  to  si>eak  to — 
all— to  be  present  at  Katherine  Dangerfield's  wedding,  if — Hiat 
wedding  ever  takes  place." 

Mr.  Dantree  looked  at  his  watch,  outwardly,  at  least,  per- 
fectly cool. 

"It  will  be  an  accomplished  fact  in  one  hour,  madame. 
And  there  is  a  good  old  adage  about  its  being  well  to  wait 
until  you're  asked — wouldn't  it  have  been  better  if  you  had 
remembered  it  ?  Your  affection  for  Miss  Dangerfield  does 
credit  to  your  head  and  heart,  but  I  fear  it  is  unreciprocated. 
She  loves  you  as  Old  Nick  Loves  holy  water." 


THE    TELLING   OF   THE  SECRET. 


143 


e  servants 

oiiu'd  like 

^'aped  in, 

ped  away 

angerfield 
he  donble 
'ith  folded 
ic  going? 
ircly,  on  a 

t,  the  dull 
above  the 
up  before 
rge  of  the 
This  way, 
a  door  on 

law — Mrs. 

h  robe  of 
iashed  on 
ed  in  the 
oomed  its 
he  almond 
It  peculiar 
int  before. 

did  you  ? 
ole  week. 

Paris.  I 
liesof  sea- 
ive  buried 
)eak  to — ■ 
l,  if— that 

least,  per- 

madanie. 
II  to  wait 
"  you  had 
field  does 
iprocated. 


"  Nevertheless,  I  shall  go  to  her  wedding  ;  I  told  her  so  once, 
and  I  mean  to  keep  my  word,  if — as  I  said  before — that  wed- 
ding ever  takes  place." 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  exi)lani  ?  " 

He  was  quite  white,  but  braced  to  meet  the  worst.  He 
looked  her  steadily  between  the  eyes.  She  stood  and  returned 
that  gaze  smiling,  silent,  and  with  a  devil  in  either  glittering 
eye.     For  Peter  Dangcrfield,  he  stood  aloof  and  listened. 

"  What  a  fortunate  fellow  you  are,  Gaston  Dantree,"  Mrs. 
Vavasor  said,  after  that  short  pause.  "You  are  the  very  hand- 
somest man,  I  think,  I  ever  saw  ;  you  are  the  best  singer  oft 
the  operatic  stage  I  ever  heard  :  your  manners  are  perfect  in 
their  insolent  ease  ;  you  are  sevenand-twenty — a  charming 
age — and  you  possess  what  so  seldom  goes  with  beauty,  un- 
happily— brains.  The  world  is  your  oyster,  and  you  open  it 
cleverly  ;  you  are  a  penniless  Yankee  adventurer,  and  a  baronet's 
daughter,  and  the  heiress  of  eight  thousand  a  year  is  v/aiting  at 
Scarswood  to  marry  you  to-night.  Under  whac  tortunate  com- 
bination of  the  planets  were  you  born,  I  wonder;  you  don't 
love  this  young  lady  you  are  going  to  marry ;  but  love  is  an 
exploded  idea — the  stock  in  trade  of  poets  and  novelists. 
People  with  eight  thousand  a  year  can  dispense  with  love  ;  but 
where  the  bride  and  groom  are  both  penniless — oh,  well !  that's 
another  matter." 

"  Mrs.  Vavasor,  it  is  after  nine  o'clock.  Did  you  send  for 
me  to  listen  to  a  homily  ?  If  so,  having  heard  it,  allow  me  to 
take  my  departure." 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Mr.  Dantree — there's  no  occasion. 
Ten  o'clock  will  come,  but  1  don't  believe  \ve'll  have  a  wed- 
ding to-night  after  all." 

"You  have  said  that  three  times!  " — Gaston  Dantree's  e)'es 
were  growing  stern,  and  his  mouth  was  set  in  one  thin  hard  line 
— the  same  thing  repeated  too  often  grows  a  bore.  Be  kind 
enough,  if  you  mean  anything,  to  tell  lue  7uhat  yow  mean." 

"  I  will !  ^  I  mean  this,  my  handsome  Louisianian — that  your 
bride-elect  is  no  more  a  baronet's  daughter — no  more  Sir  John 
Dangertield's  heiress — than  I  am  1 " 


144 


M/aS.    VAVASOR'S  STORY, 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


MRS.  vavasor's   STORV. 


13: 


T  was  out,  and  Gaston  Danlree  stood  for  a  moment 
stunned,  looking  at  the  evil,  smiling  face  of  the  speaker, 
and  absolutely  unable  to  reply.     Then — 
"I  don't  believe  it,"  he  said  slowly. 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed  aloud  : 

"You  mean  you  don't  ivant  to  believe  it.  It's  not  ])leasant 
for  a  successful  adventurer.  Oh,  don't  be  ofifendod  ;  it's  only 
the  name  couunonplace  people  give  other  people  cleverer  than 
themselves.  It's  not  pleasant,  I  say,  when  the  golden  chalice 
of  fortune  is  at  our  lips  to  see  a  ruthless  hand  spill  that  wine  of 
life  at  our  feet.  It  isn't  pleasant  for  a  handsome,  dark-eyed 
Adonis,  with  the  face  of  a  god  and  the  purse  of  a — i)auper,  to 
find  the  reputed  daughter  and  heiress  of  a  wealthy  baronet, 
whom  he  is  going  to  marry,  as  great  a  pauper  as  himself — 
greater,  indeed,  for  she  lacks  the  good  looks  that  may  yet 
make  your  fortune,  Mr.  Dantree.  It  isn't  pleasant,  but  it  is 
perfectly  true.  Sir  John  Dangerfield  has  imposed  upon  you — 
upon  his  rightful  heir  here,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  upon  society — 
passing  off  a  girl  of  whose  parentage  he  is  in  most  absolute 
ignorance,  as  his  daughter.  Don't  fly  into  a  i)assion,  Mr.  Dan- 
tree,  as  I  see  you  are  half  inclined  to  do — at  least  not  with  me. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  and  I'm  not  to  blame.  If  you  don't  be- 
lieve me — but  I  see  you  do — come  with  me  to  Scarswood — 
Mr.  Dangerlield  and  I  are  bound  for  the  wedding — and  be  con- 
vinced from  Sir  John's  own  lips.  My  shawl,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Dangerfield — Sir  Peter  that  is  to  be." 

He  took  the  rich  Parisian  wrap  and  folded  it  gallantly  around 
her  slim  shoulders. 

(laston  Dantree  still  stood  utterly  confounded — a  blank  feel- 
ing of  rage,  and  fury,  and  despair  choking  the  passionate  words 
he  would  have  said.     She  looked  at  him,  and  laughed  again  : 

'■'■  Mon  Dieii !  he  is  like  an  incarnate  thunder-cloud — black 
and  ferocious  as  a  Levantine  pirate,  or  an  Alpine  brignnd. 
Cheer  up,  mon  ami,  we  \yon't  take  your  bride  from  you — only 
her  fortune  ;  and  what  are  a  few  thousands  a  year,  more  or  less, 
to  such  a  devoted  lover  as  you  ?  And  she  would  go  with  you 
to  beggary.     It  makes  a  hardened  woman  of  the  world,  like 


MRS.    VAVASOR'S  STORY. 


US 


moment 
e  speaker, 


t  ])leasant 
it's  only 
/erer  than 
n  chalice 
at  wine  of 
dark -eyed 
)auper,  to 
Y  baronet, 
himself — 
may  yet 
,  but  it  is 
)on  you — 
society — 
t  absolute 
Mr.  Dan- 
t  with  me. 
I  don't  be- 
irswood — 
id  be  con- 
lease,  Mr. 

tly  around 

)lank  feel- 
late  words 
:1  again  : 
id — black 
briainnd. 
^ou — only 
)re  or  less, 
>  with  you 
/orld,  like 


myself,  absolutely  young  again  to  see  such  gushing  and  beauti- 
ful devotion.  I  rather  thought  romance  had  gone  out  of  fash- 
ion in  this  year  of  grace,  and  that  it  was  only  at  Covent  Gar- 
den we  heard  of  *  two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought — two 
hearts  that  beat  as  one.'  I'ut  I  have  found  out  my  mistake, 
and  think  better  of  the  world  since  I  have  known  you.  My 
bonnet,  Mr.  Uangerlield — thanks.  Now  then,  messieurs — for- 
ward !  march  I     I  am  entirely  at  your  service." 

She  took  Peter  Dangerfiekl's  arm,  looking  backward  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  black,  marble  figure  of  the  bridegroom,  like  the 
smiling  vixen  she  was. 

"  Come,  Gaston,  mon  brave"  she  said  ;  "  though  you  lose 
an  heiress,  you  need  not  lose  a  bride.  We  will  be  but  a  few 
miiuites  late  after  all.     Come — away  I  " 

Sue  ran  lightly  down  the  stairs,  humming,  with  a  face  of  ma- 
licious deligiit,  "  Haste  to  the  Wedding." 

The  hour  for  which  she  had  hungered  and  diirsted  for  years 
and  years  had  come — the  hour  of  her  vengeance.  "  Revenge 
is  sweet — particularly  to  a  woman,"  singeth  my  Lord  Dyron, 
and  he  had  hit  truth  as  well  as  poetry  when  lie  said  it.  A  man 
sometimes  spares  his  enemy — a  woinn.n  will  forgive  a  man 
seventy  times  seven,  but  one  woman  will  spare  another — never  1 

Gaston  Dantree  followed.  His  lips  were  set  in  an  expres- 
sion no  one'who  beheld  him  this  night  had  ever  seen  before  ; 
his  dark  eyes  were  lurid  with  rage,  disappointment,  and  fury, 
his  dusky  face  savage  and  set.  All  his  i)resentiments  were  ful- 
filled—more than  fulfilled.  At  the  worst  he  had  not  dreamed  of 
anything  half  so  bad  as  this.  He  b  lieved  what  he  had  heard — 
there  was  that  in  Mrs.  Vavasor's  face  and  voice,  with  all  their 
malice,  that  showed  she  spoke  the  truth.  For  the  second  time 
he  had  been  foiled — in  the  very  hour  of  his  trium])h.  A  de- 
moniacal rage  filled  him — against  this  woman,  against  the  bar- 
onet, against  Katherine,  against  himself 

*'  What  a  dolt — what  an  ass  I  have  been  I  "  he  muttered  in- 
audibly,  grinding  his  teeth  ;  "  what  a  laughing-stock  I  shall  be  ! 
But,  by  Heaven  I  if  I  am  to  lose  a  fortune,  Katherine  Danger- 
field  shall  lose  a  husband.  It's  one  thing  to  risk  Newgate  for 
an  heiress,  but  I'll  see  all  the  portionless,  adopted  daughters 
this  side  of  the  infernal  regions  at  the  bottom  of  the  bottomless 
pit,  before  I'll  risk  it  for  one  of  them  ! " 

And  then  Mr.  Dantree  folded  his  arms  in  sullen  silence,  and 
let  things  take  their  course.  He  knew  the  worst — he  had  put 
his  fate  to  the  test,  and  lost  italL  Nothing  remained  but  to  see 


146 


MRS.    VAVASOR'S  STORV. 


1^ 


14  . 


f 


the  play  played  out,  to  pack  his  tiiiuk,  aiul  at  once  seek  fresh 
fields  and  |)astures  new. 

The  night  was  black  as  Kii;l)iis  ;  the  cold,  cutting  sleet  still 
Loat,  the  winil  still  blew.  The  street  lamps  tlaredand  llickered 
in  the  soughs  of  wind — the  slioi)s  of  the  town  were  shut — lights 
twinkled  pleasantly  behind  closed  blinds.  Mrs.  Vavasor  sat 
behind  him  niuflled  in  her  wraps— a  demoniacal  desire  to  i)itch 
her  headlong  out  of  the  trap  was  strong  upon  Mr.  Dantree. 

"  Little  devil  ! "  he  thought,  looking  at  her  savagely  under 
rover  of  the  darkness.  "She  knew  it  all  along  and  waited  for 
this  melodramatic  climax.  It's  your  turn  now,  Mrs.  Vavasor; 
when  tiie  wheel  revolves  and  mine  comes,  I'll  remember  this 
dark  night's  work  !  " 

Not  one  word  was  spoken  until  the  lights  of  Scarswood  rime 
in  sight,  ("laston  Dantree's  heart  was  full  of  passionat'  bitter- 
ness, as  the  huge  gate  lamps  hove  in  view.  And  to-moirow  all 
this  might  have  been  his. 

"  Curse  the  luck  !"  he  thought.  "  I  might  have  known  that 
blasted  old  harridan,  Fortune,  could  have  nothing  so  good  in 
store  for  a  step-son  like  me." 

They  whirled  up  under  the  frowning  stone  arch — up  under 
the  black,  rocking  trees.  The  whole  long  front  of  the  old  man- 
sion was  brilliant  with  illumination.  The  great  |)Ortico  entrance 
stood  wide;  they  saw  Squire  Talbot  and  ('aptain  De  Vere 
come  out  with  anxious  faces  ;  they  saw  Miss  Talbot  in  her 
white  festal  robes  float  down  the  bkick,  oaken  stairway. 

"All  waiting  for  the  bridegroom  !  "  Mrs.  Vavasor  said,  with 
her  habitual  short  laugh.  "  Do  you  go  forward,  Mr.  Danger- 
field,  and  relieve  their  anxiety.     We  follow." 

Peter  Dangerfield  sprang  up  the  steps — never  in  all  his  life 
before  half  so  nimbly.  And  Edith  Talbot  flitted  forward  to 
him,  smiling,  but  with  an  anxious  quiver  in  her  voice. 

"  Oh,  come  ye  in  peace,  or  come  ye  in  war,  or  to  dance  at 
our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?  Mr.  Dangerfield,  where 
is  Mr.  Dantree  ?" 

*'  Mr.  Dantree  is  here." 

He  spoke  very  quietly,  but  what  hidden  delight  gleamed  in 
liK  small  pale  eyes  !  If  they  only  knew  I  He  stepped  on  one 
side,  and  Caston  Dantree  and  Mrs.  Vavasor  stood  revealed. 

One  glance  at  the  bridegroom's  {m  e,  and  blank  silence  fell. 
U'aat  had  lapiiened  ^  Surely  never  bridegroom,  from  Adam 
down,  wort  so  black  and  gloomy  a  scowl  on  his  wedding  night  I 


MRS.    VAVASOR'S  STORY, 


147 


ce  seek  fresh 

ting  sleet  still 
1  and  nickered 
c  shut — lights 
.  Vavasor  sat 
Icsire  to  pitch 
r.  Dantree. 
avagely  under 
md  waited  for 
ilrs.  Vavasor ; 
eniember  this 

arswood  rime 
sionat'  bitter- 
.  to-niOiro\v  all 

/e  known  that 
>g  so  good  in 

rch — uj)  under 
)f  the  t)ld  inan- 
irtico  entrance 
itain  De  Vere 
Talbot  in  her 
airway. 

isor  said,  with 
I,  Mr.  Danger- 

in  all  his  life 
:ed  forward  to 
'oice. 

Dr  to  dance  at 
gerfield,  where 


;ht  gleamed  in 
;tepped  on  one 
lod  revealed, 
.nk  silence  fell. 
ni,  from  Adam 
wedding  night ! 


Edith  Talbot  recoiled  with  clasped  hands,  her  brother  and  the 
cai)tain  of  Uie  Plungers  stood  looking  at  him  aghast. 

"  IJy  Jove,  Dantree,"  the  gallant  captain  managed  to  stam- 
mcr  at  last.  "  Vou  look  awfully  cut  up,  you  kiKnv.  What  the 
deuce  is  the  row?  Don't  you  know  you're  behind  time,  man, 
and— I  say,  old  boy  !  I  hope  nothing  serious  is  the  matter, 
you  know  ?  " 

"  Something  serious  is  the  matter,"  Peter  Dangerfield  made 
answer  gravely,  for  th-j  gentleman  addressed  only  scowled  a  lit- 
tle more  blackly  ;  *'  and  we  wish  to  see  Sir  John  immediately. 
Miss  Talbot,  we  are  goi  g  to  the  library— will  you  tell  my  un- 
cle to  join  us  there?  And  if  you  can  keep  Katherine  out  of 
the  way  for  the  next  half  hour,  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  library,  his  two  companions  after  him 
— Mr.  Dantree  stalking  along  like  a  specter. 

The  vast  and  spacious  library  was  brilliantly  lit  by  a  cluster 
of  waxlights  and  the  llicker  of  a  dying  fire.  Shadows  crouched 
darkly  in  the  corners,  and  the  bloody  hand  shone  vividly  in  the 
escutcheon  over  the  mantel.  The  long  silken  curtains  were 
undrawn  ;  outside  by  a  faint  lighting  in  the  northern  sky,  the 
tossing,  wind-blown  trees,  the  slanting  sweep  of  the  rain  'could 
be  seen.  Outside  there  was  the  uproar  of  the  storm — inside 
dead  stillness  reigned. 

Peter  Dangerfield  took  a  seat  deejD  in  the  shadow  of  the  vast 
Maltese  window,  and  looked  around  the  lofty  and  noble  room 
as  he  had  never  looked  before. 

The  dark  walls  lined  with  books  from  ceiling  to  floor,  the 
busts,  the  bronzes,  the  pictures,  and  the  heavy-carved  old  furni- 
ture.    One  day  all  this  would  be  his — one  day — one  day  I 

There  was  a  luxurious  fauteuil  drawn  up  before  the  fire ;  into 
this  Mrs.  Vavasor  sank,  throwing  back  her  wet  wi:ap.  Mr. 
Dantree  stood  near,  his  elbow  on  the  mantel,  his  dark  angry 
eyes  fixed  on  the  fire,  his  mouth  set  under  his  black  mustache, 
stern  and  grim.  There  was  neither  pity  nor  mercy  in  his  heart 
for  the  girl  who  loved  him.  He  had  not  been  spared — why 
should  he  spare  ?  He  had  never  loved  her — he  hated  her  in 
this  hour. 

So  he  waited — how  long  he  never  knew — full  of  silent,  sullen 
fmy,  all  the  more  dangerous  from  this  outward  quiet.  And  then 
the  door  opened,  and  Sir  John  Dangerfield  came  in. 

If  he  had  not  known  before  he  entered,  he  knew,  the  mo- 
ment his  eyes  rested  upon  them,  all  that  had  happened. 

His  secret  was  told — this  woman  had  played  him  false.  Peter 


I 


148 


MRS.    VAVASOR'S  STORY. 


Danderfield  knew  he  was  hcir-at  law — Gaston  Dantree  knew 
Kalhcrinc  was  not  his  daughter.     The  murder  was  out. 

lie  (b'ew  a  long  breath— absolutely  a  breath  of  intense  relief. 
He  had  dreaded  this  hour  unutterably—  he  had  stooped  to  decep- 
tion— to  falsehood  and  bribery,  for  the  hrst  time  in  all  his  brave 
life,  to  avert  it ;  and  now,  that  it  had  come,  he  thanked  Heaven, 
He  could  breathe  freely  and  face  his  fellow  men  again — he 
could  hold  his  head  erect  among  his  peers  once  more.  His 
great  love  had  made  hipi  a  coward — his  life  had  been  uns[)eak- 
ably  miserable  under  the  burden  of  the  secret  he  dared  not  tell. 
But  another  had  told  it  in  spite  of  him — he  was  free  !  I  t 
flung  back  his  head  proudly,  and  walked  into  their  midst  with 
his  hrm,  soldierly  step  and  stately  bearing,  and  stood  directly 
opposite  Gaston  Dantree.  The  Southerner  lifted  his  gloomy 
eyes,  and  the  gaze  of  the  two  men  met — steady,  stern,  unflinch- 
ingly. 

"  Yoa  are  late,  Mr.  Dantree,"  the  baronet  said,  coldly  and 
briefl)'.  "  You  pay  your  bride  a  poor  comi)liment  by  keeping 
her  waiting  on  her  bridal  eve." 

"  I  greatly  doubt.  Sir  John,  whether  there  will  be  either  bride 
or  bridal  to-night.  Certainly,  before  Miss  Dar,ger(ield — if  there 
be  any  such  person — becomes  Mrs.  Dantree,  you  will  clear  ui> 
a  little  statement  of  Mrs.  Vavasor's.  She  tells  us  tlie  young 
lady  you  have  palmed  upon  us  as  your  daughter  and  heiress,  is 
— 7i'/io  is  she.  Sir  John  DangertiekP  " 

The  baronet  turned  his  eyes  for  the  first  time  upon  the  little 
figure  in  the  arm-chair. 

"  You  have  broken  fiiith  with  me,  Harriet  Harman.  You 
took  my  money,  and  meant  to  betray  me." 

"  I  took  your  money  and  meant  to  betray  you  ?  Yes  !  I 
would  not  have  forfeited  my  revenge  for  three  times  the 
money." 

"  I  might  have  knowp.  it.  Then  you  have  told  these  two 
men — all?" 

"  1  have  told  them  nothing  as  vet,  save  the  bare  fact  that 
Katherme  is  not  your  daughter.  Mr.  Dantree  did  me  the  honor 
to  disbelieve  me — it  isn't  for  his  interest,  }'Ou  see,  as  it  is  for 
your  nephew's,  to  believe  it ;  so  I  brought  them  here  to  relate 
the  story  in  your  presence.  They  can't  very  well  refuse  to 
credit  it  then.  And,  as  I  still  trust,  the  wedding  will  go  on," 
with  her  most  satirical  smile  ;  "and  as  I  don't  wish  to  keep 
poor  little  Kathie  waiting  any  longer  than  is  absolutely  neces- 


sary, I 


will  begm 


at  once.     If  my  memory  fails  me  in  any 


MRS.    VAVASOR'S  STORY. 


149 


itree  knew 
:)ut. 

cnse  relief. 
(1  to  decep- 
,11  his  brave 
i<\  Heaven. 

again — he 
nore.  His 
n  unsi)eak- 
•ed  not  tell, 
free  !     I    ^ 

midst  with 
•od  directly 
his  gloomy 
n,  unflinch- 

coldly  and 
by  keeping 

either  bride 
Id— if  there 
'ill  clear  up 
the  young 
1  heiress,  is 

)n  the  little 

man.     You 

>     Yes !     I 
times  the 

d  these  two 

re  fact  that 
e  the  honor 

as  it  is  for 
;re  to  relate 
1  refuse  to 
■ill  go  on," 
ish  to  keep 
utely  neces- 

nie  in  any 


minor  particular,  Sir  John,  or  if  any  of  my  statements  are  in- 
correct, you  will  be  good  enough  to  set  me  right.  Messieurs 
Dantree  and  Dangerfield,  libten  !  " 

She  folded  her  hands,  looked  into  the  ruddy  coals,  and  be- 
gan. 

"  It's  so  long  ago — so  long — so  long — it  makes  one's  hair 
gray  only  to  look  back.  It's  fifteen  years,  my  hearers,  since  the 
ex[)ress  train  from  Rouen  to  Paris  bore  among  its  passengers 
one  day  a  woman  and  a  child — a  little  girl  of  two.  They  were 
very  poor — very  shabby,  and  traveled  third  class.  By  the  same 
train  traveled  likewise,  to  Paris,  an  English  officer,  his  lady, 
and  little  daughter,  also  aged  two  years  or  thereabouts.  The 
English  officer  was  under  n^iarching  orders  for  India,  and  was 
going  to  sail  with  his  interesting  family  in  a  very  few  days. 

"But  man  pro[)oses — 'iMench  railway  trains  sometimes  dis- 
pose, and  very  unpleasantly.  A  cattle  train  came  along — there 
was  a  mistake  somewhere,  and  worse, — there  was  a  collision. 
Crash  !  crash  ! — away  we  went !  Something  hit  the  poor  little 
woman,  traveling  third  class,  on  the  head,  and  she  knew  no  more. 

"She  opened  her  eyes  next  in  a  hosi)ital,  very  weak,  one 
great  i)ain  from  head  to  foot,  but  quite  conscious  and  likely  to 
live.     Her  first  (juestion  was  for  the  child — dead  or  alive! 

"'Alivp,'  the  gentle-faced  sister  of  charity  said,  'and  well, 
and  uninjured  ;  and,  if  I  were  willing  to  dispose  of  it  in  a  fair 
way,  to  make  its  fortune  for  life.' 

"'How?'  I  asked. 

"  In  this  way :  An  English  officer  and  his  lady,  traveling  in 
the  same  unfortunate  express  train,  had  had  their  child  killed 
— killed  instantly  by  that  terrible  collision.  The  officer  and 
his  iatly  had  escaped  unhurt — they  were  wild  with  grief,  but  re- 
membered their  fellow  sufferers  through  it  all.  The  baby  was 
buried  in  Fere  la  Chaise,  poor  angel !  and  monsieur  le  officer 
and  his  lady  came  daily  to  the  hospital  to  see  their  fellow-suf- 
ferers. Here  they  had  seen  me,  here  theyh.ad  been  shown  my 
child — scantily  clad,  thin,  pale,  half-fed — an  object  of  comi)as- 
sion  to  gods  and  men.  And  its  little,  wan,  j^athetic,  suffering, 
patient  face  went  straight  to  that  desolate  spot  in  their  hearts. 
\  was  very  poor — what  could  I  do  with  it  ?  Tlu.'y  would  adopt 
it,  bring  it  up  as  their  own,  give  it  their  name,  their  love,  and 
make  an  elegant  English  young  lady  of  a  little  nameless,  ragged 
waif  and  stray. 

"  I  listened  to  all  this—  too  weak  to  say  much,  and  v.-hen 
next  the  English  officer  and  his  lady  visited  the  hospital,  heard 


ISO 


MRS.    VAVASOR'S  STORY. 


them  repeat  the  same  arguments.  My  answer  was  ready :  If 
they  would  give  me  twa  hundred  pounds,  cash  down — I  was 
very  moderate — tliey  might  take  the  infant  for  good,  to  Jncha 
or  the  North  Pole,  and  do  with  her  as  they  would. 

*'  My  ready  acquiescence,  my  business-like  way  of  putting 
things,  rather  took  thei  .  ..'  'ck — rather  shocked  the  i)aternal 
instinct  of  my  Englishman.  He  looked  at  me  with  distrustful 
eyes,  and  asked  if  I  were  really  the  child's  mother.  It  would 
have  been  more  i)olitic,  I  dare  say,  to  have  said  yes,  but  I 
couldn't  say  it.  I  heated  that  child — I  had  hated  its  mother — 
and  some  of  that  hatred  looked  out  of  my  eyes  at  him,  and 
made  him  recoil. 

"  'She's  not  my  child,*  I  said;  •  I  tell  you  the  irudi.  She's 
not  mine,  but  she  belongs  to  me.  Never  nu'nd  how — never 
mind  anything  about  her,  excei)t  that  you  may  take  her  if  you 
like — on  my  terms.  If  you  don't  like  them,  no  harm  done — 
some  one  else  will.  Two  hundred  pounds  down,  good  English 
gold,  and  take  her  away  out  of  my  sight.  I'll  never  trouble 
you  any  more  about  her,  and  no  one  else  ever  will.  Now  do 
as  you  like.'     And  then  I  shut  my  lii)s  and  my  eyes,  and  wailed. 

*'  The  ansu'er  was  what  I  expected — the  mother  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  the  little  one,  and  my  Englishman  only  lived  lo  gratify 
every  fancy  of  his  wife.  They  would  pay  the  iwo  hundred 
down,  and  would  take  the  child.  In  India  she  and  I  were 
never  likely  to  meet  again.     What  was  my  name? 

*'  *  Harriet  Harman.' 

"  That  was  the  name  I  gave.  Whether  or  no  it  were  mine, 
is  nobody's  business  here. 

"  *  And  the  child's  name — what  was  that  ? ' 

*' '  Harriet  Harman,  too.  But  if  they  meant  to  adoj)t  her, 
they  had  better  re-christen  her — after  the  little  cherub  gone  up 
aloft,  for  instance.* 

"We  closed  the  bargain.  I  got  the  two  hundred  poinids 
and  signed  the  receipt ;  I  have  it  yet.  I  laughed  as  I  sold  the 
child,  and  got  my  price.  It  was  the  first  installinent  of  my 
vengeance — this  is  the  second.  What  would  her  mother  say, 
I  thought,  if  slie  could  only  have  been  informed  of  this  trans- 
action. 

"They  took  the  child  away.  I  wanted  her  to  shake  hands 
with  me,  but  she  wouldn't.  If.you'U  btdieve  me,  at  two  years 
old  she  wouldn't.  And  I  hadn't  treated  her  badly.  She  clung 
to  .Mrs.  Dangerfield's  skirts,  and  wouldn't  so  much  as  look  at 
me. 


MRS.    rAVASOR'S  STORY. 


151 


•eady  :  If 

n — I  was 

to  India 

f  putting 
paternal 

listrustful 
It  would 
;s,  but  I 

mother — 
him,  and 

h.  She's 
w — never 
ler  if  you 
11  done — 
d  iMighsh 
;r  trouble 
Now  do 
lul  wailed. 
Id  taken  a 
I  to  gratify 
)  hundred 
,nd  1  were 


^ere  mine, 


adopt  her, 
b  gone  up 

ed  poinids 
I  sold  the 
iwX.  of  my 
lother  say, 
this  tran«- 

lake  hands 
two  years 
She  clung 

as  look,  at 


"  '  Good-by,  then,  ma  fiiite,^  I  said  :  *  I  don't  mind  the  shake 
hands.  Go  to  India  and  l^e  happy.  If  we  ever  meet  again, 
l)erhaps  you'll  think  better  of  it,  and  shake  liands  again.' 

*'  My  Englis'.i  officer  and  his  lady  came  again,  and  again,  and 
again  to  me,  to  induce  me  to  speak  and  tell  little  Katherine's 
antecedents — (they  named  her  Katherine  at  once,  after  the 
little  angel  crushed  to  jelly).  They  offered  me  another  hundred, 
and  they  could  illy  spare  it,  but  all  the  gold  in  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land would  not  have  made  me  open  my  lips  until  my  own  time 
came.  I  wouldn't  tell,  and  I  haven't  told,  and  I  don't  mean  to 
tell  until  I  choose. 

"  Katherine  Dangerfield's  father  and  friends  live,  but  who 
they  are  no  power  on  earth  shall  ever  wring  from  me. 

*'  They  took  her  to  India,  and  for  fifteen  years  I  lost  sight  of 
the  little  one.  But  it  was  not  out  of  sight  out  of  mind — I  never 
quite  lost  her.  My  life  was  a  wandering  one — a  hard  one  often 
— but  on  the  whole  not  an  unpleasant  one.  I  made  money  and 
spent  money — I  ])itched  my  tent  in  every  Continental  city,  and 
at  last,  one  day  in  Paris,  I  picked  up  an  English  paper,  and 
read  there  how  Sir  Everard  Dangerfield,  of  Scarswood,  sixth 
baronet  of  the  name,  Avas  dead,  and  how  Sir  John  Dangerfield, 
late  of  her  Majesty's  Honorable  East  India  Company's  service, 
had  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estates.  Sir  John  and  his  only 
child,  Mi^s  Katherine  Dangerfield,  were  expected  in  England 
by  the  first  steamer. 

"  Here  was  news  !  Here  was  a  lift  in  the  world  for  ia  pdite. 
I  made  inquiries  about  this  Scarswood  park  ;  I  found  out  it 
had  a  rent-roll  of  eight  thousand  a  year,  strictly  entailed  to  the 
nearest  of  kin,  whether  male  or  female  ;  I  found  out  Sir  John 
had  a  nephew  in  the  place,  who,  lacking  heirs  on  Sir  John's  part, 
was  heir-at-law  ;  I  found  out  that  the  prevailing  belief  was  that 
the  young  lady  coming  from  India  was  really  S"ir  John's  daugh- 
ter ;  I  found  out  that  the  death  of  the  child  in  the  French  rail- 
way accident,  fifteen  years  before,  was  a  dead  secret.  Mrs. 
Dangerfield  had  died  very  soon  after  her  arrival  in  India,  and 
Sir  John  alone  was  the  possessor  of  the  secret,  excepting  always 
that  he  had  not  told  missy  herself. 

"  I  read  the  English  papers  after  that — your  English  papers 
that  chronicle  everything  your  great  men  and  your  little  men  do. 
I  read  how  Sir  John  and  Miss  Dangerfield  had  arrived,  how  they 
had  gone  down  to  Scarswood,  how  bells  had  rung,  and  bonfires 
blazed,  and  tenantry  cheered,  and  old  friends  trooped  to  wel- 
come them.     They  had  liked  Sir  Everard,  but  Sir  Everard  was 


:  J. 


3' 


152 


3IRS.    VAVASOR'S  STORY. 


gone,  and  it  was  of.  course,  *  The  king  is  dead — live  the 
king.' 

"Sir  John  had  taken  possession,  and  I  set  the  detective 
pohce  at  work  to  Gnd  out  wliat  1  wanted  to  know.  I  found  it 
out,  neither  missy  herself  nor  any  living  being  dreamed  she  was 
other  Uian  the  baronet's  daughter. 

"  My  time  had  come — my  fortune  was  made ;  I  wrote  my 
baronet  a  letter  ;  I  told  him  I  was  coming ;  I  bade  him  call 
me  Mrs.  Vavasor.  It's  a  i)retty  name,  an  aristocratic  name,  and 
I  have  retained  it  ever  since.  And  as  soon  as  ever  I  could 
raise  the  moiey,  fcr  it  was  one  of  my  imi)overished  seasons,  1 
took  the  train  and  started. 

"  That  was  last  Sejitember.  Miss  Dangerfield  had  just  met 
Mr.  Dantree,  only  three  months  ago  ;  but  what  would  yvju  ? 
We  live  in  a  rai)id  age,  a  breathless  age  of  steam  and  electric 
telegraphs,  and  love  no  longer  Hies  with  old-fashioned  wings, 
but  speeds  along  by  lightning  express.  Miss  Dangerfield  was 
just  seventeen — a  feverish  and  impressionable  age — of  a  sus- 
ceptible and  romantic  turn  of  mind,  sui:)erindiiced  by  a  surfeit 
of  poetry  and  novels,  and  she  meets  a  young  man,  well-dressed, 
well-mannered,  and  handsomer  than  anything  out  of  a  frame. 
He's  only  Gaston  Dantree,  a  good  singer,  and  a  penny-a-liner; 
but  in  her  rose-colored  imagination  he  is  set  u[)  as  a  demi-god, 
and  she  falls  down  and  worships  him.  It's  the  way  of  her  sex, 
and  he  takes  all  the  worship  as  his  right  and  due — the  way  of 
/lis  sex — and  keeps  a  bright  lookout  for  the  eight  thousand  a  year. 

"Well — I  come.  I  fmd  missy  grown  up  tall,  slim,  s[)iriled, 
proud,  and  not  jiretty.  I  find  her  like  her  mother,  her  mother 
whose  memory  I  hate  to-night,  as  1  hated  herself  twenty  years 
ago — I  find  her,  like  her  mother,  resolute,  passionate,  self-willed, 
and  utterly  s[)oiled.  She  has  no  thought  that  she  is  other  than 
she  seems.  She  is  in  love,  and  determined  to  be  married. 
liest  of  all,  the  man  she  loves  is  penniless,  not  the  least  in  the 
world  in  love  with  her,  only  bent  heart  and  soul  on  her  fortune. 
Here  is  a  glorious  chance  for  me  ! 

"  Miss  Dangerfield,  from  the  uplifted  heights  whereon  petted 
heiresses  dwell,  does  not  deign  to  tolerate  f/ie.  From  the  first 
she  abhors  me,  and  she  is  a  good  hater.  She  docs  not  remem- 
ber me,  of  coiu'se  ;  she  doesn't  know  what  good  reason  she  has 
to  be  ni}'  encn:y,  but  she  hates  me  with  an  honest,  open,  hearty 
hatred  that  is  absolutely  refreshing.  She  snubs  me  upon  every 
occasion — she  implores  her  father  to  give  me  money  if  1  want 
it,  and  turn  me  out  of  doors.     If  I  didn't  owe  her  mother  that 


1 
i 


MRS.    VAVASOR'S  STORY. 


153 


live  the 

letective 
found  it 
she  was 

rote  my 
him  call 
line,  and 
I  could 
lasons,  1 

just  met 
lid  yv)u  ? 
I  clcclric 
d  wiugs, 
field  was 
of  a  siis- 
a  surfeit 
dressed, 
a  frame, 
y-a-liiicr ; 
leini-god, 
'  her  sex, 
le  way  of 
ndayear. 
,  s[)irited, 
ir  mother 
nty  years 
elfwilled, 
iher  than 
married, 
ist  in  die 
r  fortune. 

on  petted 
1  the  first 
It  remcm- 
n  she  has 
t>n,  liearty 
)on  every 
if  I  want 
Dther  that 


V. 


I 


old  grudge  I  should  be  forced  to  owe  her  one  on  her  own  ac- 
count. 

"And  Sir  John  does  turn  me  out.  Poor  old  soldier — it's 
a  little  hard  on  him.  He  want's  to  do  right — deception  and 
secrecy  are  foreign  to  his  nature— but  how  can  he  ?  He  idol- 
izes this  mrl ;  it  will  half  kill  her  he  knows  to  hear  the  truth  ;  it 
will  [)art  her  from  her  lover,  break  her  heart,  and  make  her  hate 
hhn — unjusdy,  no  doubt;  but  when  was  ever  a  woman  just? 
And  he  clings  to  his  secret  with  desperate  tenacity,  and  pays  me 
ten  thousand  pounds  to  keep  it  inviolate,  and  bids  me  go  and 
return  no  more. 

"I  take  the  money — whoever  refuses  money? — and  I  go, 
but  to  return.  I  go  to  Paris,  ever-gracious,  ever-fascinating 
Paris;  I  enjoy  myself  and  I  wait.  And  in  England  meantime 
the  lovers  bill  and  coo,  and  the  sword  that  hangs  over  their 
head,  upheld  by  a  single  hair,  they  don't  see. 

"One  week  befo'\.  the  wedding  day,  I  come  quietly  and  un- 
ostentatiously to  Castleford.  I  go  to  Peter  Dangerfield  in  his 
lodgings  ;  poor  Mr.  Peter,  who  doesn't  dream  he  is  v.Tonged. 
I  find  him  alone,  gloomy  and  solitary  this  Christmas  Eve,  while 
over  at  Scarswood  waxlights  burn,  and  yulefires  blaze,  and  Mr. 
Dantree  kisses  his  bride-elect  under  the  mistletoe,  and  music 
and  merriment  reign.  I  find  him  alone  and  very  gloomy  ;  he  is 
thinking  how  this  cruel  Katherine  jilted  him  and  called  him  a 
rickety  dwarf — how  a  dreary  life  of  legal  labor  lies  before  him, 
and  Scarswood  will  go  to  Gaston  Dantree  and  his  children. 
He  is  thinking  all  this  over  his  bachelor  glass  of  grog,  when  I 
appear  before  him  like  the  fairy  god-mother  I  am,  and  with  one 
wave  of  my  wand,  lo  !  all  things  change.  The  haughty  heiress 
falls  from  her  pedestal,  and  he  becomes  the  heir  !  Scarswood 
will  be  his  and  his  alone  when  Sir  John  dies.  Pearls  and  dia- 
monds drop  from  my  lips,  and  he  promises  in  a  burst  of  gener- 
osity that  the  ten  thousand  pounds  reward  I  ask  shall  gladly  be 
mine. 

"  And  the  wedding  night  arrives,  and  we  come  out  of  the 
seclusion  in  which  we  have  chosen  to  hide  into  the  light  of  day. 
He  goes  for  the  bridegroom — he  brings  him  to  me  through  nii;lit, 
and  storm,  and  darkness,  and  I  tell  hi'r  ihc  trut'v  1  tell  him 
Katherine  Dangerfield  (so  called)  is  no  more  your  daughter, 
no  more  your  heiress  than  I  am  :  I  tell  him  he  has  been  grossly 
deceived  from  first  to  last.  Uz  does  not  believe  me— poor 
young  man;  it  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  believe.  Then  I 
bring  him  here  again  through  night,  and  storm,  and  darkness, 
7* 


154 


DAY  OF  IVRJTII!  DAY  OF   GRIEF t 


braving  all  things  for  tin!  noble  sake  of  truth,  and  I  repeat  be- 
fore your  face  what  I  said  behind  your  baci:,  Sir  John,  and  dare 
you  to  deny  it.  1  repeat  that  the  girl  who  calls  you  father  is 
no  more  your  daughter  or  heiress  than — " 

Sjlie  stojiped  short  and  rose  u\).  Among  the  shadows  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  room  a  darker  shadow  llickered. 

A  door  had  softly  opened,  a  curtain  had  hidden  the  unseen 
listener  until  now. 

A  white  hand  pushed  back  the  drai)ery — a  white  face  emerged 
into  the  light. 

It  was  the  bride  herself,  in  her  shining  robe,  and  orange 
wreath,  and  silvery  vail,  standing  there  and  Iiearing  every  word. 


'    \ 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


DAY   OF   WRATH  !    DAY  OF   GRIEF  ! 


% 


HERE  was  dead  silence.  All  eyes  fell  upon  her  at 
once ;  all  rose  as  she  came  gliding  forward.  Pas- 
sionate, impetuous,  impulsive,  what  would  she  say — 
what  would  she  do  ? 

In  that  dead  silence  she  comes  floating  forward,  a  shining 
bridal  vision — whiter  than  the  robe  she  wore — white,  cold,  calm. 
In  all  her  life  this  girl  had  never  restrained  one  single  emotion 
• — now  in  the  supreme  hour  of  her  life  her  pale  face  was  as  emo- 
I'.onless  as  though  carved  in  stone. 

She  came  straight  up  to  Sir  John  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
face  with  her  large,  solenni  eyes. 

'^  I  have  been  there  since  you  came  in" — she  pointed  to  the 
curtained  recess,  anil  her  voice  hail  neither  falter  nor  tremor. 
"  And  I  have  heard  every  word.     Is  it  all  true  ?" 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
with  a  sort  of  dry  sobbing  sound  hard  to  hear. 

"Is  it  all  true?"  she  repeated,  slowly,  painfully.  "I  wart 
to  know  the  worst." 

"  Then  Heaven  help  nrj  !  Yes,  Katherine,  it  is  all  true — all 
^all  I " 

"And  I  am  noi  your  daughter?  " 

"  You  are  not !     Oh,   my  clarling,  forgive  me.      If  I  had 


r 


DAY  OF  WRA77I!  DAY  OF  GRIEF t 


155 


peat  be- 
and  dare 
father  is 

vs  at  the 

:  unseen 

emerged 

d  orange 
2ry  word. 


on  her  at 
:d.  Pas- 
she  say — 

a  shining 
:old,  cahn. 
e  emotion 
as  as  e mo- 
full  in  the 

itcd  to  the 
or  tremor. 

I  his  hands 

"  I  wart 

II  true — all 

If  I  had 


loved  you  less  I  might  have  had  courage  to  tell  you  the 
truth." 

Her  face  had  never  changed  from  its  stony  calm,  her  dark, 
dilated  eyes  never  left  his. 

"  And  this  is  the  secret  this  woman  has  held  over  you  so  long ; 
the  secret  I  begged  you  to  tell,  and  you  would  not — that  I  am 
not  your  child  ?  " 

"  It  is  !     Once  more  forgive  me,  Katherine  ! " 

She  lifted  his  worn,  thin  hand  in  both  her  own  and  kissed  it. 

"  There  can  be  no  such  word  between  you  and  me,  papa. 
I  only  realize  now  how  much  I  owe  you — how  infinitely  good 
you  have  been  to  me.  You  have  been  better  to  me  than  any 
father  ever  was  to  a  child  before,  and  I — how  have  I  repaid 
you  ?  But  I  wish  I  had  known — I  wish  I  had  known.  Mr. 
Dantree  " — she  turned  to  him  for  the  first  time  ;  for  the  first  time 
the  brave  voice  faltered — "  what  have  you  to  say  to  all  this  ?  " 

"That  I  have  been  grossly  deceived,"  Mr.  Dantree  an- 
swered, lifting  his  gloomy  eyes  with  sullen  anger  ;  "  grossly 
deceived  from  first  to  last." 

"  But  not  by  me.  Do  me  at  least  that  poor  justice.  And 
now  " — she  slowly  drew  nearer  to  him — "  how  is  it  to  be  ?  You 
swore  you  loved  me,  and  me  alone.  Now  is  the  time  to  prove 
your  truth  " 

He  stood  sulkily  silent,  shifting  away,  however,  from  the  gaze 
of  those  solemn,  searching  eyes. 

The  spectators  looked  on — Mrs.  Vavasor  wath  a  face  of  tri- 
umphant, malicious  delight,  Peter  Dangerfield  full  of  vengefal 
exultation,  and  the  old  baronet  with  eyes  beginning  to  lladi 
ominously.  The  silver  shining  figure  of  the  bride  stood  on  the 
hearth-rug,  the  dull  red  glow  of  the  cinders  lighting  her  luridly 
up,  waiting  for  her  false  lover's  answer. 

It  did  not  come  ;  after  that  one  fleeting  glance,  he  stood  star- 
ing doggedly  into  the  fire. 

"  I  am  answered,"  Katherine  said  ;  '■  and  all  the  warnings  I 
received  were  riglit.  I  might  have  known  it;  I  was  a  fool,  and 
I  am  only  reaping  a  fool's  reward.  It  was  the  heiress  of  Scars- 
wood  yovi  wanted  ;  the  eight  thousand  a  year  you  loved — not 
l)lain  Katherine  Dangerfield.  Take  your  ring,  Mr.  Dantree, 
and  thank  Heaven — as  I  do — that  truth  has  come  to  light  an 
hour  before  oui  mr.rriage  instead  of  an  hour  after.  Take  your 
ring,  and  go  !  " 

She  drew  it  off  and  neld  it  out  to  him. 

He  started  up  as  if  to  obey. 


11 


II 


r^f 


156 


DAY  OF  IVRATIl!  DAY  OF   GRIEF  I 


(( 


he  thundered,  in  that  ringing  voice  that  had  often 


Curse  the  ring  !  "  he  exclaimed  ferociously  ;  "  throw  it  into 
tlie  lire  if  you  like.  /  don't  want  anything  to  remind  nie  of 
this  night's  work.  I  say  again,"  raising  his  voice,  "  1  have  been 
shamefully  tricked  and  deceived.  I'm  a  great  deal  more  thank 
ful  than  you  can  possibly  be  that  the  ^truth  has  come  out  in 
time.  And  now,  as  I  suppose  everything  has  been  said  that  it 
is  necessary  to  say,  I  may  take  my  departure  at  once,  and  for 
all." 

He  seized  his  hat,  and  strode  toward  the  door.  But  the  tall, 
soldierly  figure  of  the  baronet  interposed. 

"Stop,  sir 
cheered  his  men  to  fiercest  battle  ;  "  all  has  not  been  said  that 
ii  is  necessary  to  say.  Do  you  mean  that  tliis  revelation  shall 
pr(jvent  the  niarriage?  that,  in  a  word,  you  refuse  to  marry  my 
adoj)ted  daughter,  because  she  is  not  the  heiress  of  Scarswood?" 

(iaston  Dantree  met  the  old  soldier's  fiery,  flashing  glance 
with  sullen  defiance. 

"  Piecisely,  Sir  John  ;  I  refuse  to  marry  your  adopted  daugh- 
ter either  to-night  or  at  any  future  time.  It  was  the  heiress  of 
Sjarswood  I  wanted,  not  the  \)\:dw  young  lady  who,  if  she  will 
pardon  my  saying  it,  made  such  verv  hard  running  upon  me 
that—" 

He  never  finished  the  sentence.  With  the  cry  and  spring  of 
a  tiger  the  Indian  officer  was  upon  him — all  the  strength  of  his 
youth  back  in  his  rage. 

"Coward!  liar!  villain!"  he  thundered,  grasping  him  by 
the  throat.  "  Cur !  that  it  were  slander  to  call  man.  Lie 
there  ! " 

He  grasped  him  by  the  throat,  lifting  the  short,  light  form  as 
though  it  were  a  child  of  three  years,  flung  oi:)en  the  door — 
dragged  him  out  on  the  landing,  and  with  all  the  fury  and  might 
of  madness,  hurled  him  crushing  dcnvn  the  oaken  stairs. 

Mrs.  Vavasor's  shrieks  rang  through  the  house — Peter  Dan- 
gerfield  rushed  headlong  down  the  stairs.  With  a  dull  thud 
bad  to  hear,  IDanlree  had  fallen  on  the  oaken  floor,  and  lay  a 
bloody,  mutilated  heaj)  now. 

The  uproar  had  roused  the  house ;  guests,  servants,  brides- 
maids, all  came  Hocking  wildly  out  into  the  iiall.  Peter  Danger- 
field  had  lifted  the  head  of  the  prostrate  man  to  his  knee,  and 
was  gazing  into  the  death-like  face,  almost  as  death-like  himself. 

"Is  he  dead?" 

Captain  De  Vere  asked  the  question,  pressing  impetuously 
through  the  throng.     No  one  in  that  supreme  hour  asked  what 


DRY  OF  WRATH!  DAY  OF  GRIEF  I 


157 


had  happened  ;  instinctively  all  seemed  to  know  he  had  refused, 
at  t'lic  last  moment  to  marry  Katherine  Dangerfield. 

The  dark  head  moved  a  little,  a  faint  moan  of  pain  came 
from  the  livid  lips.  It  was  a  terrible  sight.  From  a  tremen- 
dous gash  above  the  temple  the  bright  blood  gushed,  over  face, 
and  bosom,  and  hands. 

"  Not  dead,"  Peter  Dangerfield  answered,  in  a  very  subdued 
voice.  "  De  Vere,  Graves  and  Otis  are  here  somewhere,  are 
they  not?  Send  them  along  like  a  good  fellow,  and  try  and 
disperse  this  crowd,  in  Heaven's  name.  They  may  as  well  go 
— you  see  we're  not  going  to  have  a  wedding  to-night:." 

Captain  De  Vere  turned  to  obey — then  paused.  There  was 
a  shrill  woman's  cry  from  above — in  whose  voice  no  one  knew. 

"  Send  for  the  doctor  !    Quick!  quick!    Sir  John  is  in  a  fit !  " 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  heavy  fall — of  a  stilled'groan  in 
one  of  the  upper  rooms,  then  the  cries  of  frantic  women,  the 
rapid  hurrying  of  excited  feet.  Peter  Dangerfield  lifted  his 
eyes  from  the  ghastly,  gory  face  on  his  knee,  and  glanced 
darkly  uj). 

"The  plot  thickens,"  he  muttered.  "Another  fit !  ^  And 
the  doctors  warned  him  to  take  care — that  a  second  miyht 
prove  fatal.  I  am  Peter  Dangerfield  to-night,  and  verily  a  man 
of  little  account.  When  the  first  sun  of  the  New  Year  rises,  I 
may  be  the  richest  baronet  in  Sussex  !  " 

Out  of  the  frightened  throng  of  wedding  guests  two  men 
made  their  way — Dr.  Graves,  of  Castleford,  and  his  clever  as- 
sistant, Mr.  Henry  Otis. 

"You  had  best  go  upstairs,  Dr.  Graves,  and  see  to  Sir 
John,"  Sir  John's  nephew  said,  with  grave  authority.  In  this 
crisis  of  his  life  he  seemed  to  rise  with  the  occasion  and  take 
his  place  naturally  as  next  in  command.  "  Otis,  look  at  this 
poor  fellow,  while  I  go  and  help  De  Vere  to  send  these  people 
to  the  right  about." 

Somewhere  in  Peter  Dangerfield's  narrow  head,  talent,  un- 
suspected heretofore,  must  have  been  stowed  away.  He  was 
great  on  this  night.  He  got  the  excited,  alarmed,  and  demor- 
alized Hock  of  well-dressed  wedding  guests  together  in  the  spa- 
cious drawing-rooins,  and  made  them  a  grave  little  speech. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  friends  and  neighbors,"  Mr.  Dan- 
gerfield began  in  his  piping  little  voice:  "dreadful  and  un- 
exi)ected  revelations  have  come  to  light  to-night.  ATr.  Dantree 
in  the  basest  manner  has  refused  to  fulfill  his  contract — has 
absolutely  refused  to  marry — Miss  Dangerfield."     The  infinite 


i 


h 


158 


D.dV  OF  IVA'AT//!  DAV  OF  GRIEF  t 


relish  and  dcliglit  with  which  the  speaker  said  this  was  known 
only  to  himself.  "  1  call  her  Miss  Dan^;erfield  still,  although 
she  has  really  no  right  to  that  name.  We  have  all  been  de- 
ceived. She  is  not  Sir  John's  daughter.  U7io  she  is  he  knows 
no  more  than  you  (\o.  It  was  her  fortune  this  dastardly  ad- 
venturer from  Louisiana  sought;  when  he  found  that  forfeit  he 
refused  in  most  insolent  language  to  marry  her.  Sir  John 
threw  him  down  the  stairs,  li  he  is  killed,  it  only  serves  him 
right.  Sir  John  himself  is  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  Under  these 
sad  circumstances  I  really  must  beg  of  }ou  to  leave  us.  Scars- 
wood,  from  a  house  of  wedding  joy,  has  become  a  house  of 
mourning.     Leave  us,  my  friends — it  is  all  you  can  do  for  us 


now, 


Mr.  Dangerfield  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes  in  eloquent 
silence.  *  And,  awed  and  terrified,  the  bridal  company  dis- 
]K'rsed  :  only  Squire  Talbot  and  his  sister,  and  the  captain  of 
the  Plungers  Purple  lingered  in  the  stricken  house. 

Kalherine  Dangerfield  twt  Kalherine  13angerfield  ! — a  nobody 
imposed  upon  them,  the  resident  gentry  of  the  county  !  Some- 
thing of  imagination  mingled  with  the  amaze  and  horror  of  the 
night  s  tragedy  as  these  good  people  drove  home  under  the 
inky,  midnight  sky.  And  if  (jaston  Dantree  died,  they  won- 
dered, would  the  law  really  hang  a  baronet  ? 

Peter  Dangerfield  lingered  in  the  dining-room  until  the  last 
carriage  rolled  away.  And  then  what  an  awful  silence  fell  upon 
the  great  house.  Flowers  bloomed  everywhere,  countless  wax- 
lights  flashed  upon  the  brilliant  scene — a  temporary  altar,  all 
roses  and  jessamine,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  and  on 
the  painted  windows  the  iJloody  Hand  burned  into  the  glass, 
gleamed  redly  out  in  the  dazzling  lighc.  And  upstairs  the  lord 
of  all  this  grandeur  and  luxury  lay  dying,  perhaps — and  he  was 
the  next  of  kin  !  Peter  Dangerfield  strode  hastily  to  the  grand 
bancjueting  room,  where  the  wedding  feast  was  spread.  Massive 
old  silver,  all  bearing  the  Dangerfield  crest  and  motto,  weighed 
it  down,  crystal  glittered  in  rainbow  hues,  flowers  were  here  and 
everywhere. 

"And  to-morrow,"  he  thought,  with  secret  exultation,  "all 
this  may  be  mine." 

He  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  and  drank  it.  As  he  replaced 
it  a  cold  hand  was  laid  upon  his — a  low  voice  spoke  in  his  ear. 

"  I'll  take  another,  if  you  please  ;  my  nerves  are  horribly 
shaken.  1  saw  Gaston  Dantree's  face."  She  ^huddered  as  she 
said  it.     "  Good  Heavens  I  what  a  night  this  has  been." 


$ 


DAY  OF  WRATJl!  DAY  Of  GRIEF  I 


159 


laiown 
Ithough 
ecu  de- 
;  knows 
idly  ad- 
jifeit  he 
ir  Jolm 
vcs  him 
er  these 
Scars- 
ousc  of 

0  for  us 

;loquent 
:iny  dis- 
ptain  of 

1  nobody 
!  Soiue- 
ix  of  tlie 
ndei-  the 
ley  won- 

I  the  last 
fell  upon 
less  wax- 
altar,  all 
1,  and  on 
:he  glass, 
;  the  lord 
d  he  was 
Lhe  grand 

Massive 
,  weighed 

here  and 

tion,  "  all 

;  replaced 
in  his  ear. 
:  horribly 
red  as  she 
n." 


He  turned  and  saw  Mrs.  Vavasor. 

"You  here  still  !"  he  said,  in  no  very  gracious  tone.  She 
had  done  him  good  service,  but  the  service  was  done,  and  like 
all  of  his  kind,  he  was  ready  to  fling  her  aside.  "I 
shouldn't  think  you  would  want  to  stay  up  'jr  this  roof  any 
longer  than  you  can  help — you  of  all  people.  If  these  two 
men  die  to-night,  I  wonder  if  their  ghosts  will  haunt  you. 
You  talk  about  nerves,  forsooth  !  Here,  drink  this  and  go. 
Scarswood's  no  place  for  you." 

"Grateful,  my  Peter,"  murmured  Mrs.  Vavasor,  as  she  took 
tlfe  glass  ;  "  but  I  scarcely  expected  anything  better.  1  can 
dispense  even  with  your  gratitude  while  1  hold  your  promise  to 
pay  ten  thousand  down,  remember,  the  very  day  that  makes 
you  Sir  Peter." 

"You  shall  have  it.  Go,  in  Heaven's  name!  Don't  let 
that  girl — Katherine,  you  know — see  you,  or  I  believe  we'll 
have  a  second  tragedy  before  the  night  is  over." 

He  left  her  as  he  spoke.  On  the  threshold  he  turned  to  say 
a  last  word. 

"  Drive  the  trap  back  to  your  quarters  in  Castleford.  I'll  see 
you  tomorrow,  let  things  end  which  way  they  will.  I'm  going 
to  Sir  John  now.     Go  at  once— good-night !  " 

He  ascended  to  the  baronet's  room.  Dr.  Graves  was 
there,  Katherine  and  Miss  Talbot.  The  stricken  soldier  had 
been  laid  upon  his  bed,  undressed,  and  everything  done  for  him 
that  it  was  possible  to  do.  He  lay  rigid  and  stark,  his  heavy 
breathing  the  only  sign  of  life. 

"  Well  ? "  Peter  Dangerfield  said  the  word  in  a  strained, 
tense  sort  of  voice,  and  looked  with  eager,  burning  eyes  at  the 
medical  man. 

"  I  can  give  no  definite  answer  as  yet,  Mr.  Dangerfield," 
Dr.  Graves  answered  coldly,  and  turning  his  back  upon  him. 

Peter  Dangerfield  drew  a  long  breath.  Deatii  was  written  op. 
every  line  of  that  ghastly,  bloodless  face.  After  a  brief  five 
months'  reign.  Sir  John  lay  dying — dying  childless,  and  he  was 
heir-at-law  ! 

He  looked  furtively  at  Katheri'-:e.  She  was  standin;!  niotion- 
less  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  gazmg  on  that  rigid  form.  She  had 
removed  nothing — not  a  flower — not  a  jewel — not  even  her 
gloves — vail,  laces,  and  silk  still  floated  about  her.  Her  face 
kept  its  changeless  calm — her  eyes  their  still,  frozen  look.  It 
was  horrible — it  was  fearful  I  He  turned  away  with  a  shiver, 
and  softly  quitted  the  room. 


i6o 


DAV  OF  IVJ^AT//!  DAY  OF   GRIEF  I 


v 


**0f  all  the  ways  in  which  I  thought  she  woiiUl  take  it,  \ 
never  ihouj^ht  of  this,"  lie  said  to  himself.  "  Are  all  woiueii 
like  her,  or  is  she  unlike  all  women  ?  1  never  understood  her — 
to-ninht  I  understand  her  least  of  all." 

It  was  midnight  now.  He  I'aused  a  moment  at  the  oriel 
window  to  look  out  at  the  night.  The  storm  had  expended  its 
fury,  the  rain  and  sleet  had  ceased.  A  wild  north  wind  was 
blowing  ;  it  was  turning  bitterly  cold.  U|)  above,  the  storm- 
drifts  were  scudding  before  the  gale,  a  few  frosty  stars  glim- 
mered, and  a  wan  moon  lifted  its  jiallid  face  out  of  the  distant 
sea.  The  New  Year  gave  promise  of  dawning  brilliant  and 
bright. 

"  And  this  was  to  have  been  her  wedding  day,  and  the  bride- 
groom lies  dying  down-stairs.  I  would  not  si)are  her  one  pang 
if  I  could,  but  1  nntst  own  it's  hard  on  her." 

He  went  softly  down  the  long  stairway,  and  into  the  lower 
room  where  they  had  borne  (iaston  Dantree.  Mr.  Otis  was 
with  him  still,  and  Talbot  and  De  Vere. 

•'  Is  he  dead  ?  "  Mr.  Dangerfield  demanded. 

He  looked  like  it.  They  had  washed  away  the  blood,  and 
bound  \\\)  the  wound.  He  lay  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  breath- 
ing faintly;  but,  dead  and  in  his  coffin,  Claston  Dantiee  would 
never  look  more  awfully  corpse-like  than  now. 

Mr.  Otis  lifted  his  quiet  eyes. 

"  Not  dead,  Mr.  Dangerfield — not  even  likely  to  die,  so  far 
as  I  can  see.     What  is  to  be  done  with  him  ? — what — " 

He  stopped  and  recoiled,  for  into  their  midst  a  white  figure 
glided,  and  straight  up  to  the  wounded  man.  It  was  Kaihc- 
rine.  Everywhere  she  went,  that  shining,  bride  like  figure 
seemed  to  contradict  the  idea  of  death.  Her  eyes  had  a  fixed, 
Fightlcss  sort  of  stare — like  the  eyes  of  a  sleep-walker  ;  her  face 
\.as  the  hue  of  snow.  Noiseless,  soundless,  like  a  spirit  she 
moved  in  her  white  robes,  until  she  stood  beside  the  man  she 
had  loved,  looking  down  upon  him  as  he  lay. 

The  man  she  had  loved?  He  had  treated  her  brutally- 
worse  than  man  ever  treated  woman  before,  but  there  was  no 
anger  in  her  face  or  heart.  There  was  not  sorrow,  llu-re  was 
not  even  pity — all  feeling  seemed  numb  and  dead  within  her. 
She  only  stood  and  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  weary  wonder. 
Three  hours  ago  he  had  been  so  full  of  life,  of  youth,  of  strength, 
of  beauty,  and  now  he  lay  more  helpless  than  a  new-born  child. 
What  a  narrow  step  divided  death  from  life. 

The    four   men  stood    silent,   awe-stricken.      She    neither 


f 


4 


DAY  OF  IVR/    ^11 1  DAY  OF  GRIEF  I 


l6t 


;e  it,  r 
kvoiiicn 
1  her— 

c  Olid 

(led  its 
lul  was 

stonu- 
s  glim- 

distant 
LUt   iuul 

c  bride- 
iie  pung 

e  lower 

)lis  was 


od,  and 
1  brcath- 
e  would 


3,  so  far 

c  figure 
Kalhe- 
e  figure 
1  a  fixed, 
her  face 
[)irit  she 
man  she 

rutally — 
^  was  no 
licre  was 
thin  her. 
wonder, 
strength, 
)rn  child. 

I    neither 


seemed  tc  heed  nor  see  them.  Mr.  Otis  summoned  courage 
at  last  to  approach  and  speak. 

"Miss  liangerl'ield,"  he  said  with  grave  respect,  "you  .-.lioidd 
not  be  here.  'I'iiis  is  no  sight  for  you.  Let  Mr.  Dangerfield 
lead  you  back  to  your  father." 

She  lifted  her  heavy  eyes,  and  seemed  to  see  him  for  the  first 
time. 

"Will  he  die?" 

"  I  hope  not — I  trust  not.  But  you  must  not  be  here  when 
he  recovers  consciousness." 

"W^hat  do  you  mean  to  do  with  him?"  she  asked,  in  the 
same  low  monotone.  "  Me  cannot  stay  here.  Will  you  take 
him  away  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"Take  him — where  ?     To  the  hospital,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No,  not  to  the  hospital.  I  should  rather  you  tlid  not  take 
him  there.     Can  he  be  reiiiovcd  without  much  danger  ?" 

"  Well — yes  ;  if  he  is  removed  at  once." 

"Then — Mr.  Otis,  will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"Anything  in  my  power,  Miss  Dangerfield." 

"Then  take  him  to  your  own  house.  It  is  a  great  favor  I 
ask,  but  you  will  do  it  1  know.  The  exi)ense  shall  be  mine. 
I  don't  w;mt  him  to  die."  A  slight  shudder  passed  over  her  as 
sue  said  it ;  "and  there  is  no  one  else  1  can  ask.  \\'\\\  you  do 
this  for  me  ?  " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  looked  at  him.  A  great 
compassion  fuled  his  heart  for  this  girl,  so  cruelly  bereaved 
through  no  fault  of  her  own.      He  could  not  refuse. 

"It  shall  be  done.  I  will  have  him  removed  immediately, 
and  if  he  dies  it  will  be  no  fault  of  mine." 

"  I  knew  I  might  trust  you.  If  it  is  possible,  I  will  go  there 
and  see  hi'u.  He  must  not  die,  Mr.  Otis — he  must  noty  A 
sudden  swift  gleam  came  into  her  dead  eyes.  "  He  must  re- 
cover, and  he  must  leave  here.  Take  him  at  once,  and  thank 
you  very  much." 

Then  the  tall  white  figure  flitted  away  and  was  gone,  and 
the  four  men  stood  confoundc  !  and  looked  blankly  into  each 
other's  startled  eyes. 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  De  Vere  asked.  "  What  docs  she 
want  the  scoundrel  to  recover  for  ?  Egad  !  the  only  creditable- 
thing  he  has  ever  done  in  the  world  will  be  his  leaving  it." 

"  It  is  for  her  father's  sake,  doubtless,"  suggested  Squire 
Talbot. 


1 62 


DAV  OF  IVRATII!  DAY  OF  GRIEF! 


"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  interrupted  Peter  DangerfieUl.  "  She 
wants  Dantree  to  recover  for  her  own.  If  she  has  entirely  done 
with  him  I'm  greatly  nistaken.  1  wouldn't  stand  in  Dantree's 
shoes  when  he  recovers  for  the  crown  of  England.  She  is  in  an 
unnatural  state  just  now — she'll  awake  after  a  little  and  be  all 
the  more  terrible  for  her  present  calm.  What  will  your 
mother  say,  Otis,  when  you  turn  her  house  into  a  private 
hospital  ?  " 

*'  Whatever  I  do  is  good  and  admirable  in  my  mother's  eyes. 
1  will  trouble  you,  ATr.  13angerfield,  to  order  the  carriage,  and 
the  quietest  horse  in  the  stable.  Every  moment  we  lose  nqw  is 
of  vital  importance." 

Mr.  Dangerfield  obeyed.  The  carriage  was  brought  round, 
the  wounded  man,  carefully  covered  from  the  cold,  raw  night 
air,  carried  out,  and  laid  among  the  cushions.  Squire  Talbot, 
with  little  love  for  the  stricken  man,  yet  accompanied  the  assist- 
ant into  Castleford.  (iaston  Dantree  had  been  his  guest,  and 
though,  after  his  base  and  dastardly  conduct  to-night,  he  could 
never  again  cross  the  threshold  of  Morecambe,  he  still  felt 
bound  to  see  him  safely  to  his  destination. 

Captain  De  Vere  remained  behind  at  Scarswood,  at  the  solic- 
itation cf  Mr.  Dangerfield.  He  could  not  return  to  his 
lodgings  while  things  were  in  this  uncertain  state,  neither  could 
lie  remain  alone,  riow  would  this  night  c\u\  ?  Would  Sir 
John  recover  again,  or  would  the  New  Year  morning,  breaking 
already,  see  him  lord  of  this  noble  domain  ? 

And  upstairs,  in  the  sick  chamber,  the  dim  night  lam[)  flick- 
ered, and  only  the  ticking  of  the  clock  sounded  in  the  dead 
hush.  Sir  John  lay  UKjtionless,  Dr.  (haves  sat  beside  him,  his 
wrist  between  his  fingers,  counting  the  beating  of  that  sinking 
pulse.  An  eminent  physician  had  been  telegraphed  for  to  Lon- 
don, but  it  was  more  than  doubtful  if  he  would  find  the  baronet 
alive  upon  his  arrival.  And  if  Claston  Dantree  died,  would  it 
not  be  as  well  so  ? 

Beside  him,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  looking  like  the  ghost  of 
some  dead  bride  in  that  spectral  liglu,  Katherine  sat.  She 
sat  (^uite  motionless,  her  eyes  rarely  leaving  the  face  upon  the 
]>illow,  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap,  her  face  like  marble. 
'•At  one  fell  swoop"  she  had  lost  all — all  1  home,  friends,  fort- 
une, lover,  father,  name,  and  yet  it  is  doubtfiil  if  in  these  first 
hoiws  she  suffered  much.  vShe  could  not  realize  it  yet — the 
fuddenness  and  horror  of  the  blow  had  stunned  her;  hysterics 
and  tears  and  woman's  uttermost  agony  niight  come  hereafter 


DAY  OF  WRATH!  DAY  OF  GRIEF t 


163 


"She 
y  done 
n  tree's 
is  in  an 

be  ill 

)'()ur 

private 

s  eyes, 
ge,  and 
i  nqw  is 

round, 
\v  night 
Talbot, 
e  assist- 
cst,  and 
ic  could 
still  felt 

he  soHc- 
to  his 
KT  could 
ould  Sir 
breaking 

inp  flick- 
he  dead 

him,  his 
t  sinking 
•  to  1-on- 
i  baronet 

would  it 

i    n-liOs;t    of 

iat.  She 
upon  the 
marble, 
nds,  fort- 
hcse  first 
yet — the 
hysterics 
hereafter 


— now  she  sat  still  and  calm.  Her  heart  lay  like  a  stone  in 
her  bosom,  a  dull  heavy  pain  throbbed  ceaselessly  in  her  head, 
but  her  misery  was  tearless  and  dumb. 

Dr.  Graves,  watching  her  uneasily  and  furtively,  wondered 
what  manner  of  woman  this  girl  was.  So  unlike  all  others  he 
had  ever  known,  sitting  here  without  one  com|)laint,  one  sob, 
one  cry  of  pain,  with  her  bridegroom  lost  to  her  on  her  bridal 
night,  the  father  who  had  adored  her  dying  before  her  eyes. 

And  while  the  night  light  flickered,  and  the  two  i)ale  watchers 
sat  mutely  there,  the  bright  wintry  sun  arose — the  happy  New 
Year  had  begun.  As  its  first  rays  stole  in  between  the  closed 
curtains,  the  sick  man's  eyes  opened,  and  he  rallied  a  little. 
His  glance  fell  upon  Katherine,  a  swift  gleam  of  intelligence 
lit  his  eyes,  his  lips  moved,  and  a  few  incoherent  words  came 
forth.  In  an  instant  she  was  bending  above  him,  her  ear  to  his 
lips. 

'•  Darling  papa  1  yes,  what  is  it? " 

He  strove  hard  to  speak,  but  again  only  that  muttered,  inco- 
herent sound.    But  the  girl's  quick  ear  had  caught  three  words  : 

"Indian  cabinet — will."  His  thickening  voice  fliiled,  his 
dim  eyes  looked  with  piteous,  speechless  agony  up  in  hers. 

"A  will  in  the  Indian  cabinet — is  that  it,  papa?" 

He  nodded  eagerly — a  flash  of  light  crossing  his  death-like 
face. 

"And  you  want  me  to  get  it  for  you  ?  " 

He  nodded  again.  "  Quick  I  "  he  said  huskily,  and  she  arose 
and  left  the  room. 

The  Indian  cabinet  was  in  the  library.  There  the  lights  still 
burned  brightly,  and  there  on  the  hearth-rug  her  lover  had 
stood — the  lover  for  whom  she  had  been  ready  to  give  up  the 
world  and  all  its  glory — and  who  mercilessly  cast  her  off.  She 
looked  darkly  that  way  once.  "  He  will  live,"  she  said  to  her- 
self under  her  breath.  "And  I  will  remember  it."  Then  she 
crossed  to  the  tall  cabinet,  opened  one  diawcr  after  another, 
.ind  searched  among  the  papers  there  for  the  i)aper  she  wanted. 

She  found  it  without  much  trouble,  closed  and  relocked  the 
cabinet,  and  returned  to  the  sick  room.  Sir  John  still  lay, 
breathing  laboriously,,  with  a  hungry,  eager  light  in  his  gleam- 
ing eyes. 

"Shall  I  read  it,  papa — is  that  what  you  mean  ?" 

He  nodded  once  more.  She  opened  the  pai)er — it  was  very 
short — and  read  clearly  and  distinctly  its  contents.  It  be- 
queathed to  his  beloved  adopted  daughter  Katherine  the  suna 


,r 


I 


164 


I/AV  OF  WRATH!  DAY  OF   GRIEF  I 


of  three  thousand  pounds — the  portion  of  his  late  wife,  and  was 
unsigned.     She  understood  instantly  \\\\\X.  it  was  hj  wished. 

"  You  want  to  sign  this,  00  you  not  ?  " 

Another  eager  n'  d,  another  husky  "(piick  !" 

She  laid  the  «.:  cunient  upon  the  blotting  book  before  hiin 
on  the  bed,  and  placed  the  pen  in  his  hand.  Dr.  Craves  hastily 
summoned  Captain  Do  Vere,  and  the  two  men  stood  by  as 
witnesses  while  the  stricken  man  essayed  to  sign. 

Essayed — and  in  vain !  The  pen  droi)ped  useless  from  his 
fingers.  Again  Katherine  lifted,  and  placed  it  in  his  hand— 
asrain  he  strove.  The  effort  was  futile — it  fell  from  his  fm- 
gers,  and  with  a  low  moan  of  agony  his  nerveless  arm  dropped 
by  his  side. 

"  It  is  of  no  use — all  vital  power  is  gone.  lie  never  will 
sign  his  name  again,"  Dr.  Ciraves  said  ;  "  he  is  exciting  him?.elf 
dangerously  and  uselessly." 

The  dying  man  heard,  and  understood.  Ilis  eyes  turned  on 
Katherine  with  a  speechless  anguish  terrible  to  see. 

"Too  late!  too  late  !"  they  heard  him  groan. 

"  Oil,  my  Cod  !  too  late  !  " 

Katherine's  arms  encircled  him — she  pressed  her  cold  face 
close  to  his. 

"  Pai)a,  darling,"  she  said,  softly  and  sweetly,  "I  don't  want 
you  to  grieve  for  me — to  think  of  me  even.  You  are  very, 
very  ill — very  ill,  papa,  and — had  we  not  better  send  for  a 
clergyman  ?" 

He  made  a  feeble  motion  of  assent.  She  looked  at  Cap- 
tain De  Vere. 

*'  YoH  will  go  ?  "  she  said. 

lie  went  at  once.  Then  she  bent  clo^e  to  him  again,  whis- 
pering gendy  and  soothingly  into  his  ear.  But  it  is  doubtful  if 
he  heard  her.  A  stui)or — the  stupor  which  precedes  death — - 
was  gathering  over  him  ;  his  dull  eyes  closed,  his  pale  lips  mut- 
tered, he  moaned  ceaselessly — the  great,  last  change  was  very 
near. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  blue  January  sky  now,  the  whole 
world  jubilant  with  the  glad  sunlight  of  the  New  Year.  And 
in  the  town  of  Castleford  peo|)le  talked  with  bated  breath  of 
the  strange,  dread  tragedy  at  Scarswood,  and  of  nothing  ehc. 
In  a  litde  cottage  in  the  remotest  suburbs  of  the  town,  Caston 
Dantree  lay,  senseless  still,  while  life  and  death  fought  their 
i'-harp   battle   above   his   pillow.       And   in   that  stately   and 


DAY  OF  WRATH!  DAY  OF   GRIEF  I 


165 


nd  was 
icd. 


urc  him 
i  hastily 
d  by  as 

loni  his 
hand — • 
his  fin- 
hoppcd 

ver  will 
hinl^>elf 

rncd  oil 


:old  face 

)n't  want 
uo  very, 
lid  for  a 

at  Cap- 


lin,  whis- 
oubtful  if 
;  death — ■ 
lips  inut- 
was  very 

le  whole 
ar.  And 
breath  of 
liiiiff  ehe. 
1,  (laslon 
eir 
nd 


1 


m 


ight  their 


Lteiy 


spacious  chamber  at  Scirswood  its  lord  lay  dying,  while  clergy- 
man and  physicians  stood  by,  useless  and  in  vain. 

She  never  left  him — she  neither  slept  nor  ate.  As  ^hc  had 
been  from  the  Hrst — tearless,  noiseless — so  she  was  to  the  last. 
The  iK'rfnmed  laces — the  dead  while  silk  of  her  trailing  lobe 
— still  swept  their  richness  over  the  carpet ;  on  arms  and  neck 
large  pearls  still  shone,  on  her  head  the  orange  wreath  and 
vail  still  remained.  She  had  removed  nothing  but  her  gloves 
— what  did  it  matter  what  she  wore  now  ?  She  sat  beside  the 
dying  man,  while  the  slow  ghostly  hours  dragged  on — an  awful 
sight  it  seemed  to  the  men  who  mutely  watched  her.  Her 
wedding  day  !  and  she  sat  here  bereaved  more  cruelly,  more 
bitterly,  than  ever  widow  in  the  world  before. 

Morning  came  and  passed.  The  short  January  afternoon 
wore  on.  The  sun  dro[)ped  low,  the  blue  twilight  shadows 
were  gathering  once  more.  That  celebrated  physician  from 
London  had  arrived,  but  all  the  physicians  in  the  great  iJabylon 
were  of  little  avail  now.  Lower  and  lower  the  red  wintry  sun 
dro|)ped,  Hushing  earth  and  ^ky  with  rose-Hght,  and,  as  its  last 
red  ray  faded  and  died  amid  the  trees  of  Scarswood  Park,  Sir 
John  Dangerfield  passed  from  Scarswood  and  all  earthly  pos- 
sessions forever.  Without  si-jn  or  struggle  the  shadow  that 
goes  befor.e  crept  up,  and  shut  out  the  light  of  life  in  one  quiet 
instant  from  all  the  face. 

U[)  and  down,  up  and  down  in  the  crimson  splendors  of  that 
New  Year  sunset,  Peter  Dangerfield  paced  under  tiie  leafless 
trees.  And  this  was  to  have  been  her  wedding  day  !  No  pang 
of  pity — no  touch  of  remorse  came  to  him — it  was  not  in  his 
nature  to  feel  cither.  He  only  waited  in  a  fever  of  impatience 
for  the  end. 

It  came.     As  he  stood  for  an  instant,  his  eyes  fixed  on  that 
red  radiance  in  the  west,  thinking  how  fiiir  and  stately  Scars- 
wood  looked  l)eneath   its  light,  Dr.  Clraves  approached   him. 
One  look  at  his  face  was  enough!     His  heart  gave  a  great' 
leap.     At  last !  at  last  ! — his  hour  had  come. 

•'Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,"  the  physician  gravely  said,  "your 
uncle  is  dead." 

The  late  Sir  John  had  been  his  friend  ;  but  a  live  dog  is 
better  than  a  dead  lion.  Sir  John  was  dead,  and  Sir  Peter 
reigned.  It  could  do  no  harm  to  be  the  first  to  pay  court  to 
the  new  sovereign. 

"Sir  Peter!"  He  turned  faint  and  giddy  for  a  moment 
with  great  joy,  and  leaned  speechlessly  against  a  tree.     Then 


f 


1 66 


''DEAD   OR  alive:' 


he  started  up,  his  face  flushing  dark  red,  and  made  hastily  for 
thL'  house.  Never  before  had  the  old  baronial  hall  looked  half 
so  noble,  half  so  grand  ;  never  before  had  the  fair  domain  spread 
around  him  seemed  half  so  stately  an  inheritance  as  nov/  when 
he  stood  there  in  this  first  January  sunset,  master  of  Scarswood. 


% 


III    8! 


CHAPTER    XV. 

"dead    or    aliv  e." 

HE  funeral  was  over,  and  a  very  grand  and  stately 
ceremonial  it  had  been.  There  had  been  a  prcfusiou 
o^  mutes,  of  black  velvet,  and  of  ostrich  feathers,  a 
long  procession  of  mourning  coaches,  a  longer  pro- 
cession of  the  carriages  of  the  county  families — a  whole  army, 
it  seemed,  of  the  Dangerfield  tenantry  and  the  trades-people 
of  Castleford.  For  the  late  Sir  John,  during  his  brief  reign, 
had  made  many  friends,  and  over  his  death  a  halo  of  delicious 
romance  hung.  Miss  Dangerfield  was  not  Miss  Dangerfield — 
his  daughter  was  not  his  daughter,  and  over  in  that  little 
cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a  young  man  lay — dying 
it  might  be — slain  by  the  hand  of  the  outraged  baronet  whom 
they  were  burying  to-day. 

It  was  a  very  solemn  pageant.  The  bells  of  the  town  and 
of  the  hamlets  about  tolled  all  die  day  long  !  Scarswood  Park 
had  been  alive  from  mornir.g  until  night  with  people  in  carriages 
coming  to  leave  cards.  The  principal  shops  of  Castleford 
were  shut,  the  principal  church  hung  in  black.  .And  "ashes  to 
ashes — dust  to  dust,"  had  l)een  spoken,  and  they  laid  Sir  John, 
with  the  dozens  of  other  dead  Dangerfields,  under  the  chancel, 
where  sturdy  Sir  Roland  Dangerfield,  knight,  had  knelt  (in 
stone)  for  a  hundred  years,  opposite  his  wife  ICU/abeth,  \vilh  a 
stone  cushion  between  them. 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  in  the  pale  yellow  glimmer  of  the 
January  sunset  the  mourning  coaches  and  the  family  carriages 
went  their  way,  and  the  dead  man's  ad()i)fed  daughter  w;!S 
driven  back. home.  Home  !  what  an  utter  inockei)  tiiat  word 
must  have  sounded  in  her  cars  as  she  lay'back  among  the  sable 
cushions  in  her  trailing  cra[)es  and  bombazine,  and  kno\ving 


**DEAD   OR  alive:' 


167 


stilv  for 
keel  hall 
11  sj)rc'acl 
>\v  wlicn 
irswood. 


d  stately 
ovcfusiou 
athcrs,  a 
igcr  pro- 
-»te  army, 
es-|)oople 
icf  roign, 
delicious 
rerfieUl — 
hat   little 
ly— dying 
let  whoiii 

Lown  and 
ood  Park 

carriap;es 

'astletbrd 
"  ashes  to 

Sir  John, 
chancel, 

knelt  (ill 
ih,  vvilh  a 

iier  of  the 
carriatres 
j;hter  \v.!S 
li.at  word 
;  the  sahle 
I  knowing 


tliat  of  all  the  homeless,  houseless  wretches  adrift  on  the  world, 
there  was  not  one  more  homeless  than  she. 

The  pale  yellow  glow  ol  the  sunset  was  merging  into  the 
gloomy  gray  of  evening  as  they  reached  Scarswood.  Tier 
faithful  friend,  Edith  Talbot,  who  had  been  with  her  from  tiie 
first,  was  with  her  still.  The  blinds  were  drawn  u[),  shutters 
unbarred,  Scarswood  looked  much  the  same  as  ever,  only  there 
was  a  hatchment  over  the  great  dining-room  window,  and  in 
the  house  the  servants,  clad  in  deepest  mourning,  moved  about 
like  ghosts,  with  bated  breatli  and  hushed  voices,  as  though  the 
lord  of  the  manor  still  lay  in  state  in  these  silent  upper  rooms. 
It  all  struck  with  a  dreary  chill  on  the  heart  of  Miss  Talbot, 
the  gloom,  the  silence,  the  mourning  robes,  the  desolation. 
She  shuddered  a  little,  and  clung  closer  to  Kalherine's  arm  as 
they  wcit  up  the  wide,  black  sli[)pery  oaken  staircase,  down 
which  Gaston  Dantree  had  been  hurled.  But  there  was  that 
in  her  friend's  Hice  that  made  her  very  heart  stand  still  with 
awe  and  expectation. 

She  was  white  as  death.  At  all  times  she  liad  been  pale,  but 
not  like  this — never  before  like  this  !  As  she  had  been  from 
the  fust  hour  the  blow  fell,  so  she  was  still,  silent,  tearless,  rigid. 
All  those  days  and  nights  when  Sir  John  Dangertield  had  lain 
stark  and  dead  before  her,  she  had  sat  immovable  in  the  biir 
carved  oak'  chair  at  his  head,  h(;r  clasped  hands  lying  still,  her 
face  whiter  than  snow,  white  almost  as  the  dead,  her  eyes 
fixed  straight  before  her  in  a  fixed,  unseeing  stare.  Of  what  was 
she  thinking  as  she  sat  there — of  all  that  was  past,  of  all  that 
was  to  come?  No  one  knew.  People  who  had  thought  they 
had  known  her  best  looked  at  her  in  wonder  and  distrust,  and 
began  to  realize  they  had  never  known  her  at  all.  Friends 
came,  and  friends  went — she  never  heeded  ;  they  spoke  to  her 
soothingly,  comi)assionately,  and  she  answered  in  briefest  mon- 
osyllables, and  closed  her  lips  more  resolutely  than  before. 
The  only  one  of  them  all  she  ever  addressed  directly  was  Mr. 
Otis,  and  then  only  in  one  short  i)hrase,  "  How  is  he  ?  "  The 
answer  as  invariably  was  "  Much  the  same— no  worse,  no 
better."  Mr.  Otis,  with  his  keen  thin  f:ice  and  steel-blue  eyes, 
watelied  this  singular  sort  of  girl  with  even  more  interest  than 
the  rest  of  the  curious,  lie  was  a  young  man  who  thought 
more  than  he  spoke,  and  who  studied  human  nature.  Woincn 
at  best  are  incoin[)rehensible  creatures,  scarcely  to  be  tieated 
as  rational  beings  in  tiie  trying  hours  of  life,  but  beyond  all  of 
iher  sex  this  girl  was  a  sphinx.      She  had  lost  lover,  father, 


m 


1 68 


"DEAD  OR  ALIVE.'' 


!t; 


4 


fortune,  home,  and  name  all  in  one  liour,  and  she  had  never 
shed  one  tear,  never  utLered  one  comi>laint,  Olher  women's 
.hearts  would  have  broken  for  half}  and  she,  a  child  of  seventeen, 
bore  all  like  a  Si^artan.  Was  it  that  she  did  not  feel  at  all  or 
— that  she  felt  so  much  ?  \Vould  this  frozen  calm  outlast  her 
life,  or  would  the  ice  break  all  at  once,  suddenly  and  terrib!\-, 
and  let  the  black  and  bitter  waters  below  rush  forth  ? 

*'  If  it  ever  does,  then  woe  to  those  who  have  ruined  her," 
Mr.  Otis  thought.  "This  girl  is  no  common  girl,  and  not  to 
be  judged  by  common  rules.  I  Ihoughr.  so  from  the  first  lime 
I  saw  her — happy  and  hopeful,  I  think  so  nsore  than  ever  now 
— in  her  desolation  and  despair.  She  loved  tlie  man  she  has  lost 
widi  a  passion  and  abandon  which  (thank  Heaven  !)  few  girls  of 
seventeen  ever  feel.  She  loved  the  father  who  is  dead,  the  name 
and  rank  she  bore,  the  noble  inheritance  that  was  to  be  hers. 
And  all  has  gone  from  her,  and  she  sits  here  like  this  !  Let 
Mrs.  Vavasor  take  care,  let  Peter  Dangerljcld  be  warned,  and 
most  of  all,  let  Ciaston  Dantrce  die,  for  on  my  life  I  believe 
a  day  of  terrible  reckoning  will  come." 

But  (]aston  Dantree  was  not  going  to  die  ;  that  matter  was 
settled  beyond  possibility  of  doid)t  before  the  day  of  the  fu- 
neral. He  would  live.  lie  told  her  so  now,  as  she  asked  the 
question  ;  and  as  Henry  Otis  spoke  the  words,  his  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her  with  a  keen,  powerful  look.  Slie  did  not  even  seem 
to  see  him — her  eyes  looked  out  <.)f  the  window  at  the  gray 
shadows  veiling  the  wintry  landscape,  a  slight,  indescribable 
smile  dawned  for  a  second  over  he."  white  face. 

*' He  will  live,"  she  rei)eated,  sof'ly  ;  "1  am  glad  of  that." 
She  looked  up  and  met  the  young  surgeon's  level,  searching 
gaze.  "  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  said  again,  slowly-,  "if  surh.  ■? 
lost  wretch  as  1  am  has  a  right  to  be  glad  at  all.  Yoa  have 
been  very  kind,  Mr.  Otis."  She-gave  him  her  hand  with  some 
of  iier  old  frank  grace.  "Thank  you  very  much.  I  will  repay 
you  some  day  if  I  can." 

He  took  the  slim  fingers  in  his,  more  moved  than  she  knew. 
How  could  those  wan  little  fingers  work?  how  deathly  whitti 
the  }-oung  face  !  An  infinite  com[)assion  moved  him,  ar.d  in 
that  instant  there  dawned  within  him  a  love  and  pity  that  never 
left  him.  He  longed  with  manhood's  strong  compassion  to 
take  this  poor  little  womanly  martyr  in  his  sheltering  arms,  and 
hold  her  there  safe  from  sorrow,  and  suffering,  and  sin,  it  might 
b(^  in  the  dark  da}'s  to  come. 

The  only  hours  in  which  life  and  their  old  fire  had  come  to  the 


m 


he  had  never 
)ihcr  women's 
l(^f  seven tcv'ii, 
I  feel  at  all  or 
ni  outlast  lier 
'  and  terribh-, 
rth  ? 

i  ruined  her," 

rl.  and  not  to 

the  first  time 

han  ever  now 

in  she  has  lost 

I  !)  few  girls  of 

lead,  the  name 

•as  to  be  hers. 

ke  this  !     Let 

e  warned,  and 

life  I   believe 

at  matter  was 
day  of  the  fn- 

i  she  asked  the 
his  eyes  were 
not  even  seem 

\v  at  the  gray 
indescribable 

glad  of  that." 
evel,  searching 
^ly,  "if  siirh.  T 
.11.  Yoa  have 
and  w'.tii  some 
1.     1  will  re[)ay 

han  she  knew. 
■  deathly  white 
L'd  him,  and  in 
pity  that  never 
compassion  to 
,Ting  arms,  and 
k1  sin,  it  might 

ad  come  to  the 


i 


**DEAD   OR  ALIVEr 


i6g 


large,  wearv  eyes  of  the  girl,  had  been  the  hours  when  Peter 
Dangerfi'-  d  had  come  into  the  death-chamber.  Then  a  curious 
expression  would  set  her  lips  hard,  and  kindle  a  furtive,  cease- 
less gleam  in  her  eyes.  Sir  Peter !  lie  was  tiiat  now  beyond 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt — the  legal  forms  which  would  prove  his 
right  presently  were  only  forms. 

Sir  Peter  wore  the  weeds  of  woe  well.  He  was  pale  and 
restless,  his  deep  black  made  him  look  (juite  ghastly  ;  his  small, 
pale,  near-sighted  eyes  blinked  away  uneasily  from  that  statu- 
esque figure  sitting  in  the  great  arm-chair.  Mr.  Otis  noticed 
tliis,  too — what  did  not  those  sharp  eyes  of  his  see  ? 

"  I'm  a  poor  man,"  he  said  one  evening,  under  his  breath, 
as  he  watched  the  dark  glance  with  which  Katherine  followed 
the  new  baronet  out  of  the  room — "  I'm  a  poor  man,  and  I 
would  like  to  be  a  rich  one,  but  for  all  your  prospective  baron- 
etcy, all  your  eight  thousand  a  year,  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  I 
wouldn't  stand  in  your  shoes  to-night." 

And  now  it  was  all  over,  and  Katherine,  trailing  her  black 
robes  behind  her,  was  back  at  Scarswood.  "  For  the  last  lime, 
Edith,"  she  said  softly  to  her  companion,  "  for  the  last  time." 

"  Katherine,"  her  friend  faltered,  "what  do  you  mean  ?  Oh, 
Kathie,  don't  look  so — don't  smile  like  that  for  pity's  sake. 
You  make  me  afraid  of  you." 

For  a  smilfc,  strange  and  ominous,  had  dawned  over  Kathe- 
rine's  flxce,  as  she  met  her  friend's  piteous  glance. 

"Afraid  of  me,"  she  repeated.  "Well— I  am  a  hideous 
object,  I  dare  say,  by  this  time,  and  I  don't  dare  to  look  in  the 
glass  lor  fear  I  .should  grow  afraid  of  myself.  Afraid  of  myself ! 
That  is  just  it — I  am  afraid  of  myself— horribly  afraid — afraid 
— afraid.  Edith,"  she  caught  her  friend's  arm  with  sudden 
strength,  ^'you  like  me  a  little  now— yes,  yes.  1  know  you 
do ;  and  in  the  years  that  are  to  come  1  know  you  will  hate 
me— hate  and  abhor  me !  Edith,  I  loved  my  father— dearly, 
dearly— but  I  tell  you  1  am  glad  he  is  dead  and  buried 
to-night." 

"  Oh,  Katherine  !  Katherine  !  " 

"I  am  only  seventeen,"  Katherine  Dangerfield  went  steadily 
on,  "and  I  am  strong,  and  healthy,  and  likely  to  live  for  fifty 
years  to  come.  What  sort  of  a  woman  do  you  think  I  will  be 
half  or  a  quarter  of  a  century  from  now?  Think  of  me  as  I 
am  to-night,  Edith  Talbot,  when  the  time  comes  for  you  to 
shrink  at  the  sound  of  my  name— an  orphan,  who  had  no  fiither 
to  lose,  a  widow  in  her  wedding  hour,  a  houseless,  friendless 
9 


i 


n 


III 


II 


170 


**DEAD   OR  ALIVEr 


wretch,  'raine-^  to  think  herself  a  baronet's  daughter  fjid 
heiress.' 

The  p.;  "  n  v 'thin  her  was  rising  now,  strong,  but  surely 
rising.  II.  ..uu.  were  clenched,  her  eyes  bright  in  the  creep- 
ing dusk,  her  voice  ■  p,  suppressed,  and  intense.  Edith  Tal- 
bot clasped  her  two  liands  caressingly  round  her  arm,  and 
looked  beseechingly  up  in  her  face. 

"Not  houseless- -not  friendless,  Katherine,  darling — never 
that  while  my  brother  and  I  live.  Oh,  come  with  us — let 
Morecanibe  be  your  home — let  me  be  your  sister.  I  love  you, 
dear — indeed  1  do,  and  never  half  so  fondly  as  now.  Come 
with  us,  and  give  uj)  those  dark  and  dreadful  thoughts  that  I 
know  are  in  your  mind.     Come,  Rathie — darling — come  !  " 

She  drew  her  friend's  face  down  and  kissed  it  again  and 
again.  And  Katherine  held  her  tight  for  one  moment,  and 
then  left  her  go. 

"  U  is  like  you,  Edith,"  she  only  said,  "like  you  and  your 
brother.  I>ut  then  it  was  always  a  weakness  of  your  house  to 
take  the  losing  side.  I  do  not  say  much,  but  believe  me  I'm 
very  grateful.  And  now,  my  little  paie  pet,  I  will  send  you 
home — you  are  worn  out  in  your  loyal  fidelity  to  your  fallen 
friend.  I  will  send  )ou  home,  and  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  you 
will  come  back  to  Scarswood." 

She  kissed  her,  and  put  her  from  her.  Edith  Talbot  looked 
at  her  distrustfully  in  the  fading  light. 

"  To-morrow  or  next  (.lay !  IJut  when  I  come  back  to 
Scarswood  shall  I  find  Katherine  here?" 

Katherine  was  standing  where  the  light  fell  strongest.  She 
turned  abruptly  away  at  these  words. 

"Where  else  should  you  find  me  ?  You  don't  think  Peter 
Dan — nay  I  beg  his  pardon — Sir  Peter  will  turn  me  on  the 
street  for  a  day  or  two  at  least.  Here  is  your  brother,  Edith 
— I  don't  want  to  meet  him,  and  1  would  rather  be  alone. 
\^ou  must  go." 

The  words  sounded  ungracious,  but  Edith  understood  her — 
understood  the  swift  impetuous  kiss,  and  the  flight  from  the 
room.  She  wanted  to  be  alone — always  the  impulse  of  all 
wild  animals  in  the  first  throbs  of  pain.'  And  though  Katherine 
showed  it  in  no  way,  nor  even  nuich  looked  it,  Edith  knew 
how  I  lie  wound  was  bleeding  inwardly,  and  that  it  was  just  such 
strong  natures  as  this  that  suffj"  most,  and  suffer  mutely. 

"Going  to  stay  all  night  at  S(.  rswood  alone — deuced  strange 
girl  that,"  the  ?'^uire  grumbled.     "  Never  shed  a  tear  since  it 


4 


daughter  tm\ 

ng;,  but  surely 
It  in  the  creep- 
Edith  Tal- 
her   arm,  and 

darhng — never 
with   us — hH 
I  love  you, 
now.      Come 
loughts  that  I 

-come  !  " 
I   it  again  and 
moment,  and 

you  and  your 
your  house  to 
lelieve  me  I'm 
will  send  you 
to  your  fallen 
r  next  day,  you 

Talbot  looked 

:ome   back   to 


itrongest. 


Slu 


n't  think  Peter 

urn  me  on  the 

brother,  Edith 

ther  be  alone. 

ierstood  her — 
dight  from  the 
impulse  of  all 
ugh  Katherine 
t,  Edith  knew 
t  was  just  such 
mutely. 

leuced  strange 
a  tear  since  it 


J 


Ml 


"DEAD  OR  ALIVE.*' 


171 


all  happened,  they  say — a  woman  that  doesn't  cry  is  a  woman 
of  the  wrong  sort.  She's  got  Otis  to  fetch  round  that  coxcomb 
Dantree,  but  now  that  she's  got  him  fetched  round,  what  is  she 
going  to  do  with  him  ?  She's  got  to  walk  out  in  a  day  or  two 
and  leave  that  little  cad  of  an  attorney  lord  of  the  manor.  She 
never  says  a  word  or  lifts  a  finger  to  help  herself.  And  ^  used 
to  think  that  girl  had  pluck." 

'*  What  would  you  have  her  do?  What  can  she  c'o  i  "  s 
sister  demanded,  impatiently.  "What  can  any  w  ,.  •  m  ..v* 
when  she's  wronged,  but  break  her  heart  and  bear  V  . 

"Some  women  are  devils — just  that,"  the  young  qi.ire 
responded,  gravely;  "and  I  believe  in  my  soul  Katherine 
Dangerfield  has  more  of  the  devil  in  her  than  even  >','neral- 
ity  of  women.  If  Messieurs  Dantree  and  Dangerfield  have 
heard  the  last  of  their  handiwork,  then  I'm  a  Dutchman.  If 
Katherine  Dangerfield  can't  have  justice,  take  my  word  for  it, 
Miss  Talbot,  she'll  have  revenge." 

His  sister  said  nothing — she  shivered  beneath  her  sables 
and  looked  back  wistfully  towards  Scarswood.  She  loved  her 
friend  truly  and  greatly  as  girls  rarely  love  ;  and,  as  Katherine  had 
said,  it  was  ever  the  way  of  her  chivalrous  race  to  take  the  los- 
ing side — a  way  that  in  troubled  times  gone  by  had  cost  more 
than  one  Talbot  his  head.  A  vision  rose  before  her  of  Kath- 
erine alone  in  those  empty,  dark  rooms,  where  death  had  been 
so  lately,  brooding  with  that  pale,  somber  face,  over  her  wrongs. 

"  With  her  nature,  it  is  enough  to  drive  her  to  madness  or 
suicide,"  Miss  Talbot  thought.  "I  will  go  back  to-morrow 
and  fetch  her  with  me,  say  what  she  will.  To  be  left  to  her- 
self is  the  very  worst  thing  that  can  possibly  happen  to  her 
now." 

Katherine  was  not  alone,  however.  There  had  followed 
their  carriage  to  Scarswood  another,  and  that  other  contained 
the  heir  and  the  late  baronet's  lawyer.  Mr.  Mansfield,  the 
Castleford  solicitor,  was  talking  very  earnestly  concerning  that 
unsigned  and  invalid  will. 

"  You  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  take,  Sir  Peter,  in  urging  you 
to  do  this  poor  young  lady  justice.  Probably  you  need  no 
urging — you  have  been  her  friend — who  so  recently  thought 
yoiuself  her  cousin.  Your  late  excellent  uncle  was  my  friend 
since  my  earliest  youth — I  know  and  you  know  how  he  loved 
his  daughter — Katherine,  I  mean.  I  trust  and  believe,  Sir 
Peter,  you  will  do  her  justice." 

The  smile  on  the  face  of  the  new  baronet  might  have  damped 


172 


**DEAD     OR  ALIVF.r 


the  old  solicitor's  hope  could  he  have  seen  it,  but  the  fast- 
closiin;  night  liid  it  as  he  lay  bark  in  the  cushions. 

"  liow,  i)ray,  Mi.  Mansfield?" 

The  sneer  was  just  perre[)tible.  It  was  there,  however,  and 
the  lawyer  remarked  it. 

"  l?y  giving  her  at  once  the  three  thousand  |)ounds  which  he 
wished  to  leave  her  in  that  unsigmxl  will,  if  will  it  can  really  be 
called,  drawn  up  informally  by  himself,  and  speaking  of  het 
only.  I  su])pose  the  knowledge  of  this  woman  Vavasor's  power, 
and  his  dread  of  her,  jirevented  him  from  making  his  will  jjrop- 
erly,  months  ago.  But  to  those  three  thousand  pounds,  the 
remains  of  his  late  wife's  jiortion,  you,  at  least.  Sir  Peter,  have 
no  shadow  of  moral  right.  Legally,  of  course,  everything  is 
yours,  but  law,  as  you  know,  is'not  always  justice." 

"1  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mansfield,"  the  other  interrupted 
coolly:  "  law  and  justice  in  this  case  go  hand-in-hand.  My 
late  lamented  uncle  tried  his  best  to  defraud  me  of  my  rights — 
you  can't  deny  that." 

"  He  is  dead.  Sir  Peter,  and  you  know  the  old  Latin  prov- 
erb :  '  Speak  no  ill  of  the  dead.' " 

"If  truth  be  ill,  it  nuist  be  spoken,  though  the  dead  had 
been  a  king  instead  of  a  baronet ;  and  I  claim  that  I  have  a 
legal  and  moral  right  to  everything — ever)'fhing — you  under- 
stand, Mr.  Manstield — this  three  thousand  pounds  and  all.  I 
think,  on  the  whole.  Miss  Katherine  Dangerfield  has  every 
reason  to  be  thankful  for  the  life  of  ease  and  luxury  she  has 
led — she,  a\1io,  for  aught  we  know,  might  have  been  a  beggar 
born.  There  is  no  need  to  get  angry,  Mr- Manstield — 1  am 
speaking  truth." 

"Then  I  am  to  understand,  Sir  Peter,"  the  lawyer  said,  rais- 
ing his  voice,  "  that  you  refuse  to  do  her  even  this  scant  justice — 
that  you  mean  to  send  her  forth  penniless  into  the  world  to 
make  her  own  way  as  she  best  can  ?  I  am  to  understand  this?  " 

"  My  good  fellow — no,"  the  young  baronet  said,  in  the  slow- 
est, laziest,  and  most  insolent  of  tones  ;  "nothing  of  the  sort — 
I  shan't  turn  my  late  fair  relative  into  the  world.  She  shall 
live  and  enliven  Scarswood  and  me  by  her  charming  presence 
as  long  as  she  i)leases.  Hut  you  will  kindly  allow  me  to  m;ike 
my  own  terms  with  her,-  and  be  generous  after  my  own  fashion. 
May  I  ask  if  it  is  to  visit  and  condole  with  Miss  Dangerfield 
that  yon  are  on  your  way  to  Scarswood  now  ?  I  suppose  we 
must  call  her  Miss  Dangerfield  for  convenience  sake — her  own 
name,  if  she  ever  had  a  legal  right  to  a  name,  being  enveloped 


"DEAD   OR  ALIVBV 


17Z 


but  the  fast- 


lowever,  and 

ids  which  he 
an  really  l)e 
king  of   hot 

ast)r's  power, 
)is  will  pro])- 
pounds,  the 
Peter,  have 

everything  is 

interru])tecl 
n-hand.  My 
f  my  rights — 

Latin  prov- 

lie  dead  had 
hat  I  have  a 
— you  under- 
Is  and  all.  I 
Id  has  every 
xury  she  has 
•ecu  a  beggar 
isfield — 1  am 

j'er  said,  rais- 
;ant  justice — 
the  world  to 
■stand  this?" 
,  in  the  slow- 
of  the  sort — 
1.  She  shall 
ing  presence 
nie  to  make 
own  fashion, 
>  Dangert'icld 
[  sui)|)ose  we 
,ke — her  own 
g  enveloped 


in  a  delightful  cloud  of  mystery  and  romance.  I  wonder  how 
she  finds  it  to  be  a  heroine  ?  " 

"  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,"  the  old  lawyer  began  hotly  ;  but  the 
baronet  waved  his  hand  authoritatively. 

"That  will  do,  Mr.  Mansfield.  1  /tare  been  in  your  ofiice,  I 
admit,  and  1  hai'e  been  an  impoverished  attorney  while  you  were 
a  well-to  do  solicitor  ;  perhaps  you  had  a  right  to  dictate  to  me 
then.  Our  relations  have  changed — I  deny  your  right  now. 
l]e  kind  enough  to  keep  your  temper,  and  for  the  future,  your 
advice." 

.\nd  then  Sir  Peter  folded  his  smail  arms  across  his  small 
chest,  and  looked  with  the  malicious  delight  of  a  small  nature 
through  his  eye-glass  at  the  discomfited  solicitor. 

*'  I  owe  him  a  good  many  home-thrusts,"  the  baronet 
thought,  with  a  chuckle,  "  1  think  1  have  i)aid  off  one 
installment  at  least ;   I  shall  pay  off  all  I  owe  before  long." 

They  reached  Scarswood — dark  and  gloomy  the  old  house 
loomed  up  in  the  chill,  gray,  wintry  twilight.  A  crescent  moon 
swung  over  the  trees,  and  the  stars,  bright  and  frosty,  were  out. 
No  lights  gleamed  anywhere  along  the  front  of  the  building ; 
except  the  soughing  of  the  night-wind,  no  sound  reached  their 
ears. 

"  If  one  believed  in  ghosts,  Scarswood  looks  a  fit  place  for 
a  ghostly  carnival  to-night,"  Mr.  Mansfield  thought  ;  "  it  is  like 
a  haunted  house.  I  wonder  can  poor  old  Sir  John's  shade  rest 
easy  in  the  tomb,  with  his  one  ewe  lamb  at  the  mercy  of  this 
contemptible  little  wolf." 

"  I  am  going  to  the  library,  Mansfield,"  the  new  baronet 
said,  with  cool  familiarity,  *'  If  you  or — Miss  Dangerfield  want 
me,  you  can  send  for  me  there.  Only  this  premise  :  I  will  come 
to  no  terms  with  her  in  your  presence.  What  I  have  to  say  to 
her,  I  shall  say  to  her  alone." 

He  opened  the  library  door,  entered,  and  closed  it  with  an 
emphatic  bang.  The  elder  man  looked  anxiously  after  him  on 
the  landing, 

"  What  does  the  little  reptile  mean  ?  I  don't  half  like  the  tone 
in  which  he  speaks  of  Katherine,  He  doesn't  mean  to — no, 
he  daren't — no  man  dare  insult  her  in  the  hour  of  her  downfall." 

He  sent  a  servant  to  announce  his  presence,  the  French  girl 
Ninon  ;  she  came  to  him  in  a  moment,  and  u'shered  him  into 
the  room  where  Katherine  sat  alone. 

It  was  her  old  familiar  sitting  room  or  boudoir,  all  fitted  up 
with  crimson  and  gilding,  for  she  had  ever  loved  bright  colors. 


I 


174  **DEAD   0/i  ALIVE." 

The  firelight  leaping  in  the  grate  alone  lit  it  now,  and  before  the 
fn-e,  lying  back  in  a  great  carved  and  gihk-d  chair,  Katherine 
sat.  T'le  brigiit  (Uihiiions  against  wiiicii  her  head  lay  threw  out 
with  startling  relief  the  ghastly  pallor  of  her  face,  the  dead 
black  of  her  dress.  How  changed  she  was  -how  changed — 
how  changed  out  of  all  knowledge.  Ami  there  were  people  who 
had  called  her  cokl,  and  heartless,  and  unfeeling  because  she 
had  sat  with  dry  eye^  and  still  iAQ.<^  beside  her  dead.  "  Un- 
feeling !"  and  worn  and  altered  like  this. 

She  looked  round  and  iield  out  her  hand,  with  the  faint  shadow 
of  her  former  bright  smile,  to  her  friend. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  very  gently,  "  1  do  not  intrude  u|)on  you 
too  soon,  do  I?  Hut  I  could  not  wait  ;  1  came  with  Sir  I'eter 
straight  from  the  funeral  here.  As  things  stand  now,  the  sooner 
your  affairs  are  settled  the  better." 

She  lifted  her  head  a  little  and  looked  at  him. 

*'  Peter  Dangerfield  here — so  soon  I  He  is  in  haste  to  take 
possession.  Does  he  intend  to  remain  all  night  ? — and  am  1  to 
leave  at  once  ?  " 

"You  are  not  to  leave  until  you  see  fit,  for  a  thousand  Peter 
Dangcrtields !  I  don't  know  whether  he  intends  remaining 
over  night  or  not ;  certainly  not,  though,  1  should  say,  if  you 
object." 

"1!  What  right  have  I  to  object.  The  house  is  his,  and 
everything  in  it.  He  is  perfectly  justified  in  taking  possession 
at  once,  and  in  turning  me  out  if  he  sees  fit." 

"  He  will  never  do  that,  my  child  ;  and  I  think — I  hope — T 
am  sure  he  will  act  as  common  justice  re(iuires,  and  give  you 
at  once  tl  '^  three  thousand  pounds  your  father  be(iueathed  to 
you  in  that  unsigned  will." 

She  half  rose  from  her  chair;  a  light  flashed  into  her  face  ;  a 
rush  of  passionate  words  lcai)ed  to  her  li[)s.  Mr.  Mansl'icKl 
drew  back.  It  was  the  old  hery  temper  breaking  through  the 
frozen  calm  of  those  latter  days'  des|)air.  But  all  at  once  she 
checked  herself — she  who  never  before  had  checked  a  single 
emotion.  She  sank  slowly  back  into  her  seat,  and  a  strange, 
set  expression  hardened  her  mouth. 

"  You  think  so,  Mr.  Mansfield — you  think  he  will  be 
generous  enough  for  that?  And  it  is  in  his  power  ?ioi  to  give  it 
to  me  if  he  likes— tliose  thr(;e  thousind  pounds?" 

"  Certainly,  it  is  in  his  power  ;  but  no  one  save  the  veriest 
monster  would  think  of  acting  a  part  so  thoroughly  mean  and 
base.     He    has    come   into   a  great    fortune    suddenly  and 


**DEAD   OR  alive:' 


^n 


[1  before  the 

Kalheriin' 

ly  threw  out 

(e,  the  (lead 

changed — 

'people  who 

Ibeeause  she 

I'iid.     "  Uii- 

[aiiU  shadow 

lie  upon  you 
ih  Sir  I'eter 
,  the  sooiici 


aste  to  take 
and  am  1  to 

nsand  Peter 
s  leniaining 
I  say,  if  )'oii 


2  is  his,  and 
1  i)oSbe.ssioii 

—I  hope — I 
id  give  you 
lueadied  to 

her  flice  ;  a 
•.  MansfieKl 
throngh  the 
at  once  she 
ed  a  siiij^le 
1  a  strange, 

10    will    be 
ot  to  give  it 

the  veriest 
'  mean  and 
Idenly  and 


.      «l 


unexpectedly,  and  you  have  lost  one.  Surely  no  wretch  lives 
on  earth  so  utterly  despicable  as  to  wish  to  retain  also  the 
portion  of  the  late  Lady  Dangerfield.  Sir  John's  last  eftort  was 
to  sign  that  will  ;  it  ought  to  be  the  most  sacred  thing  on  earth 
te  Sir  John's  successor." 

She  listened  very  quietly,  the  shadow  of  a  scornful  smile  on 
her  face. 

"  Mr.  Mansfield,  I  am  afraid  there  is  something  wanting  in 
your  knowledge  of  human  nature,  in  your  opinion  of  Sir  Peter 
DangerfieKl.  You  forget  how  long  this  new-maile  baronet 
has  been  defrauded  of  his  rights  as  heir  presiujiptive.  You 
forget  that  some  months  ago  1  refused  to  marry  him — that  \ 
even  insidted  him — my  abominable  ten)per,  Air.  Mansfield. 
You  forget  he  owes  me  a  long  debt,  and  that  it  is  in  his  power 
to  repay  me  now.  And  I  think  Sir  Peter  is  a  gentleman  who 
will  conscientiously  pay  every  debt  of  that  sort  to  the  uttermost 
farthing." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Dangerfield — " 

"And  that  is  still  another  injury,"  the  girl  said.  "I  have 
])rcsumed  to  wear  an  honorable  and  ancient  name — I,  a  name- 
less waif  and  stray,  born  in  an  almshouse  or  a  hovel,  very  likely. 
And  you  think  he  will  really  give  me  this  three  thousand 
pounds?     Did  he  tell  you  so,  Mr.  Mansfield?" 

"  No,  he  told  me  nothing."  TliC  old  lawyer  shifted  away  un- 
easily, as  he  spoke,  from  the  strange  expression  in  the  large, 
steadfast  eyes.  '*  He  said  he  would  see  you  alone,  and  make 
his  own  terms  with  you.  I  infer  from  that  he  intends  to  do 
something.  He  is  in  the  library — shall  I  go  and  send  him  here, 
or  would  you  rather  it  were  to-morrow  ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  motnent — looking  into  the  fire — her 
mouth  set  in  tiiat  hard,  straight  line.  He  watched  her  uneasily 
— he  could  not  understand  her  any  more  than  the  others.  Was 
she  going  to  take  it  quietly  and  humbly  like  this? — she,  v  ho 
two  weeks  ago  had  been  the  proudest  girl  in  Sussex.  \\\is  she 
going  to  accept  Peter  Dangerfield's  dole  of  charity,  and  thank 
him  for  his  generosity  ?  or  did  those  compressed  lips,  the  dry, 
bright  glitter  of  those  eyes,  speak  of  coming  tempest  and 
revolt  ?     He  was  out  of  his  depth  altogether. 

*'  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  fidgeting,  '*  shall  I  send  him, 
or — " 

She  looked  up,  aroused  from  her  trance. 

"Send  him  in,  by  all  means,"  she  said.  "Let  us  see  how 
generous  Peter  Dangerfield  can  be." 


176 


**DEAD  OR  ALIVE.** 


I      ) 


He  got  up,  walked  irresolutely  to  the  door,  hesitated  a 
moment — then  came  suddenly  back. 

"And,  Ivalhie,"  ht;  said  impetuously,  "if  )0u  should  fling  his 
miserable  dole  back  in  his  face,  don't  fear  that  you  shall  ever 
want  a  home.  1  have  no  daughters  of  my  own  ;  come  with  me 
to  Castieford,  and  brighten  the  lite  of  two  old  humdrum  people. 
Come  and  be  ;;/_)•  daughter  for  the  rest  of  your  days." 

He  gave  her  no  time  to  answer — he  hurried  away  and  rapped 
smartly  at  the  library  door.      Peter  Dangerfield's  small,  color 
less  face  lookeil  out. 

"Wh:it  is  it  ?"  he  asked.      "Am  I  to  go  upstairs?" 

"You  are,"  resjxjndcd  Mr.  .Mansl'ieUl,  curtly;  "and  as  you 
deal  with  that  poor  child  in  her  trouble,  may  the  good,  just 
Cjoci  deal  by  you.  I  shall  remain  here  and  take  her  home  with 
me  to-night  if  she  will  come." 

Peter  DangerficKl  smiled — an  evil  and  most  sinister  smile. 

"1  think  it  extremely  likely  she  wiil  go,"  he  said,  "The 
two-story  brick  dwelling  of  JNlr.  Mansfield,  the  solicitor,  will  be 
rather  an  awkward  change  after  the  gayety  and  grandeur  of 
Scarswooil,  but  then — beggars  mustn     be  choosers." 

He  walked  straigiit  upstaus,  still  with  a  smile  on  his  face — 
still  with  that  exulting  glow  at  his  heart. 

"You  have  had  your  day,  my  lady,"  he  said,  "and  you 
walked  over  our  heads  with  a  ring  and  a  clatter.  You  ([ueened 
it  right  ro}ally  over  us,  and  now  the  wheel  has  turned,  and  my 
turn  has  come.  There  is  not  a  slight,  not  a  sneer,  not  an  in- 
sult of  yours,  my  haughty,  uplifted  Miss  Dangerfield,  that  I  do 
not  remember  — that  1  will  not  repay  to-night," 

He  opened  the  door  without  ceremony,  and  wall  ed  in. 
The  room  was  brightly  lighted  now  ;  she  had  lit  the  clusters  of 
wa.x  tapers  in  the  chandeliers,  and  stirred  the  fire  into  a  bright- 
er bla/.e.  With  its  crimson  and  gold  hangings  and  uj^holstery, 
its  rich  velvety  carpets,  its  little  gems  of  paintings,  its  carved 
and  inlaid  piano,  its  mirrors,  its  light,  its  warmth,  and  i)erfume, 
it  looked,  as  he  opened  the  door,  a  rich  and  glowing  picture  of 
color  and  beauty.  And  in  the  trailing  black  dress,  and  with 
her  white,  cold  face,  Katherine,  the  fallen  cpieen  of  all  this 
grandeur,  stood  and  looked  at  him  as  he  came  in. 

She  had  left  her  seat,  and  was  leaning  lightly  against  the 
mantel,  her  hands,  hanging  loosely,  clasped  before  her.  On 
those  wasted  hands  rich  rings  flashed  in  the  firelight,  and  on 
the  left   still  gleamed  GL:ton    Dantree's   betrothal  circlet,  a 


«- 


**DEAD   OR  ALIVE.'* 


177 


hesitated  a 

^ul(]  (ling  his 
HI  shall  ever 
^nie  with  ine 
Irum  peoi)le. 

and  rapped 
Ismail,  coloi 

Is?" 

and  as  you 
c  good,  just 
r  home  with 

Iter  smile. 

iaid.     "'i'he 

;itor,  will  be 

gr.'indeur  of 
I) 

n  his  face — 

I,  "and  3'oii 
^^oii  ([uecncd 
ncd,  and  my 
r,  not  an  in- 
Id,  that  I  do 

wai;  ed  in. 
e  clusters  of 
Uo  a  bright- 
!  upholstery, 
s,  its  carved 
nd  perfume, 
g  picture  of 
is,  and  with 

of  all  this 

against  the 
e  her.  On 
ght,  and  on 
1   circlet,  a 


heavy  band  of  plain  gold.     It  was  the  first  thing  Peter  Danger- 
field  saw.     He  laughed  slightly,  and  pointed  to  it. 

"You  wear  it  still,  then,  my  fiiir  Cousin  Katherine.  And 
he  will  recover,  Otis  says.  Well— who  knows— you  were 
madly  in  love  with  him  when  you  were  a  baronet's  daugliter. 
He  may  prove  faithful,  and  think  better  of  jilting  you  when  he 
recovers,  and  we  may  have  a  wedding  after  all.  Let  us  hoi)e 
so.  He  has  used  you  badly — infernally,  1  may  say,  but  then 
your  angelic  se.\  is  ready  to  forgive  th(;  man  they  love  seventy 
times  seven." 

He  took  his  ])lace  opposite  her,  and  they  looked  each  other 
straight  in  the  eyes.  It  was  the  grave  defiance  of  two  duelists 
lo  the  death. 

"Was  that  what  you  came  here  to  say,  Sir  Peter  Danger- 
field  ?  " 

"  No,  Katherine — I  wonder  if  your  name  really  is  Katherine, 
by  the  way ;  I  must  ask  Mrs.  Vavasor  ;  I  came  here  at  old 
Mansfield's  request  to  talk  business  and  nioney  matters.  How 
nice  it  is  for  you,  my  dear,  to  have  so  many  friends  in  the 
hoiu'  of  your  downfall — the  Talbots,  the  Mansfields,  and  that 
heavy  dragoon,  De  Vere,  who  will  do  anything  under  Heaven 
for  you — well,  except,  perhaps,  marry  you.  And  you  look  like 
a  'queen  uncrowned'  to-night,  my  tall,  stately  Miss  Danger- 
field — not'  good-looking,  you  know,  my  dear — you  never  were 
that — but  majestic  and  dignified,  and  uplifted,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  Ah  !  how  are  the  mighty  fallen,  indeed  !  Only  a 
fortnight  ago  you  stood  here  ruling  it  like  a  very  princess,  on 
my  soul,  monarch  of  all  you  surveyed  ;  and  now — there  isn't  a 
beggar  in  the  streets  of  Castleford  poorer  than  you." 

She  stood  dead  silent,  looking  at  him.  How  his  e)'es 
gleamed — how  glibly  his  venomous  tongue  ran.  His  little 
form  actually  seemed  to  dilate  and  grow  tall  in  this  hour  of  his 
triumph. 

"  And  that  other  night,"  he  went  on  ;  "  do  you  remember  it, 
Kathie  ?  Oh,  let  me  call  you  by  the  old  familiar  nnme  to  the 
last  I  That  other  night  when  I — a  poor,  pettifogging  attorney, 
as  I  think  I  have  heard  Mr.  Dantree  call  me — 1  had  the  pre- 
sumption in  the  conservatory  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  It 
was  [jresumptuous,  and  I  richly  deserved  the  rebulT  I  got  for  my 
pains;  I  deserved  even  to  be  called  a  '  rickety  dwarf!'  No 
one  knows  it  better  than  I.  Yoa  the  heiress  of  Scarswood,  and 
I  not  worth  a  rap.  If  1  had  been  good-looking,  even  like  that 
angelic  Dantree,  with  a  fj-e  and  voice  of  a  seraph  ;  but  ugly 
8* 


178 


**DEAD   OR  ALIVE** 


\\ 


and  a  dwarf,  and  only  an  attornny  withal,  you  served  me  pie- 
cisdy  right,  Kalhci  inc.  You  adored  beauty,  and  Dantree  was  at 
}'our  feet ;  you  worshiped  hini,  and  he  worshiped  your — fort- 
une ;  a  very  common  story.  What  a  pity  the  Fates  did  not 
make  us  both  huulsome  instead  of  clever.  What  chance  has 
brains  against  beauty — particularly  in  a  woman  ?  You  served 
nie  right,  Katherine,  and  now,  in  return,  1  am  to  come  before 
)ou  to-night,  and  offer  you  three  thousand  pounds — mine  to 
give  or  keep  as  I  please." 

He  paused,  his  whole  face  glowing  with  sardonic  light.  Hers 
never  changed. 

"  (io  on,"  she  said,  in  a  i)erfectly  steady  voice. 

He  came  a  ste|)  nearer.  What  did  that  strange  demoniacal 
light  in  his  eyes  mean  now  ?    She  saw  it  but  she  never  flinched. 

'*  Katherine,"  he  said,  "  I  can  do  better  for  you  than  that. 
^Vhat  is  a  pitiful  three  thousand  pounds  to  the  late  heiress  of 
eight  thousand  per  anmun  ?  1  can  do  better  for  you,  and  I 
will,  ^\'hy  should  you  leave  Scarswood  at  all — why  not  remain 
here  as  mistress  still  ! — with  tne  T' 

*'  CiO  on,"  she  said  again  in  the  same  steady  tone. 

"Need  I  speak  more  plainly?"  He  drew  still  another  step 
nearer,  and  ail  the  devil  of  hatred  and  malignity  within  him 
shone  forth  in  the  gleam  of  his  eyes.  "Then  I  will — it  would 
be  a  pity  fcr  us  to  misunderstand  one  anotiier  in  the  least. 
Last  Sepleiiibcr  I  asked  you,  the  heiress  of  Scarswood,  to  l)e 
my  'vife.  You  refused — more,  )()U  grossly  insulted  me.  'I'o- 
night  I  retiu'n  good  for  evil — let  us  forgive  a'. d  forget.  As 
loril  an.d  master  of  Scarswood,  I  offer  you  again  a  home  here  — 
this  time  not  as  wife,  but  ;is  my  m/s/rcss /" 

The  atrocious  word  was  spoken.  His  hate  and  reveng.'  h.ad 
given  him  a  diabolical  courage  to  s.iy  what  he  never  would 
have  dared  to  say  in  cold  blood.  ])Ut  at  the  last  word  he  drew 
back.  He  was  a  coward  to  the  core,  and  she  had  show.i  her- 
self before  now  to  have  the  fur)'  of  a  very  panther.  And  they 
were  alone — she  migiit  murder  him  before  he  could  reach  the 
door.     His  first  im|)ulse  was  flight  ;  and  she  saw  it. 

"  Stop ! "  she  cried,  and  he  stood  as  still  as  though  he  had 
been  shot.  "You  coward!  You  cur!"  No  words  can  tell 
the  concentrated  scorn  of  her  low,  level  voice.  "  You  have 
said  it,  and  now  hear  w^.  This  is  your  hour — mine  will  come. 
And  here,  before  Heaven,  by  my  dead  father's  memory,  1  swear 
to  be  revenged.  Living,  I  shall  jdusue  you  to  the  very  ends 
of  the  earth — dead,  1  will  come  back  from  the  grave,  if  the 


n 


•■V. 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


179 


Id  me  pie- 
It  ree  was  at 

['our — foit- 
-*s  (lid  not 
:Iiance  has 
''oil  served 
)me  before 
—mine  to 

lit.    Hers 


leiiioniacal 
er  ilinchcd. 

tlian  that. 

heiress  of 
yon,  and  I 
not  remain 


nothcr  step 
witiiin  him 
1 — it  woiiKl 
1  the  least, 
vood,  to  be 
I  me.  To- 
'orgt't.  As 
)me  here — 


f 


I 


dead  can  !  For  every  word  you  have  spoken  to-night,  you 
shall  pay  dearly — dearly  !  I  have  only  one  thing  left  to  live 
for  now,  and  that  is  my  vengeance  on  you.  The  fortune  you 
have  taken  I  will  wrest  from  you  yet — the  shame,  the  misery, 
the  disgrace  that  is  mine,  you  shall  feel  in  your  turn.  I  swear 
it !  Look  to  yourself,  Peter  Dang(Mfield  1  Living,  I  will  hunt 
you  down — dead,  I  will  return  and  torment  you  !     Now  go." 

She  pointed  to  the  door.  It  was  the  most  theatrical  thing 
imaginable.  His  courage  rose  again.  She  did  not  mean  to 
spring  upon  him  and  strangle  him  liien,  after  all.  He  laughed, 
a  low,  jeering  laugh,  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  Katlierine,"  he  said,  "do  goon  the  stage.  You'll  bean 
ornament  to  the  i)rofession,  and  will  turn  an  honest  penny. 
That  speech,  that  attitude,  that  gesture,  that  tone  were  worthy 
the  inunortal  Rachel  herself:  With  the  stage  lamps,  and  an 
appropriate  costume,  a  speech  half  so  melodramatic  would 
bring  down  the  house.  And  if  you  die,  you'll  haunt  me ! 
Don't  die,  Kathie — you're  too  clever  a  woman  to  be  lost  to 
the  world.  And  ghosts,  my  de::.r,  went  out  of  fashion  with  the 
Castle  of  Otranto  and  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  Think  over 
my  projjosal,  my  dear,  and  good-night." 

He  looked  back  at  her  orjce  as  he  stood  there,  the  leaping 
firelight  full  on  her  white  face  and  black  robe,  and  as  he  saw 
her  then,  he  saw  her  sleeping  or  waking  all  the  rest  of  his  life. 
Then  the  door  closed,  and  Katherine  was  once  more  alone. 


avenge  had 
ever  \voul<l 
rd  lie  drew 
s'low.i  Jicr- 
And  they 
reach  the 

gh  he  had 
Is  can  tell 
Vou  have 
will  come, 
ry,  I  swear 
very  ends 
ive,  if  the 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


BEFORE      MIDNIGHT. 


HE  hours  of  the  evening  wore  on.  Sir  Peter  Danger- 
field  had  shut  himself  i:p  in  the  lower  rooms,  on  the 
watch,  however,  for  any  sound  upstairs.  He  had  had 
his  revenge-  he  had  offered  one  of  the  i)roudest  girls 
in  England  the  most  deadly  insult  a  man  can  offer  a  woman. 
It  was  the  hour  c-f  his  triumph,  but  in  the  midst  of  it  all  he  felt 
strangely  nervous  and  uneasy. 

"Dead  or  alive  I   will  have  my  revenge."    The  ominous 
words  haunted  liim.     In  the  mouths  of  oilier  girls  they  would 


i8o 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


LM 


i 


i.a 


have  been  mcloclramatic  and  meaningless,  but  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfiekl  was  not  like  other  girls.  She  meant  iheni,  a'ld  would 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  compass  her  ends. 

In  her  pretty,  wax  lit,  crimson-himn  room,  Katherine  stood, 
long  and  motionless,  where  he  had  left  her.  Her  loosely  clasped 
hanils  still  hung  before  her,  her  darkly  brooding  eyes  never  left 
the  the.  Her  f;ice  kept  its  white,  changeless  calm — her  lijis 
were  set  in  that  hard,  resolute,  bitter  line. 

The  sonorous  clock  over  liie  stables  sf.il'ing  right  awoke  her 
at  last  from  her  tranc".  She  started  u|),  crossed  the  room,  like 
one  roused  to  a  determined  purpose,  and  rang  the  bell.  Ninon 
came. 

"  I'm  going  out,  Ninon — I  am  going  to  Castleford.  It  Diy 
be  close  upon  midnight  before  i  return,  and  the  house  v.ill 
probably  be  shut  uj).  Wait  for  me  at  the  door  in  the  southern 
turret,  and  when  I  knock  let  me  in." 

*'  Hut,  mademoiselle,"  the  girl  cried  ;  "  to  Castleford  so  late, 
and  on  foot,  and  alone  !  " 

"I  don't  mind  the  lateness — no  one  will  mol.stw*?.  Kor 
the  walk,  I  can  do  it  in  aw  hour  :uxl  a  quarter.  Do  as  1  bid 
you,  Ninon,  and  say  nothing  to  aiij  i.ne  of  my  absence." 

The  French  girl  kn  w  her  ii;)stres-  too  well  to  disobey,  but 
she  lingered  for  a  moment  at  tlie  door,  looking  back  wistfully. 
She  loved  this  impetuous  young  mistress,  who  scolded  her 
vehemently  one  instant  and  made  it  up  the  next  by  a  present 
of  her  best  silk  dress.  She  loved  her,  as  all  the  servants  in  the 
house  did,  and  never  so  well  as  now. 

"  If — if— oh  !  Mademoiselle  Katherine,  don't  be  angry,  but 
if  you  would  only  let  me  go  with  you  !  The  way  is  so  long, 
and  so  lonely,  and  coming  home  it  will  be  so  late.  Madenioi- 
selle,  I  beseech  you  !  let  me  go  too  !  " 

"  You  foolish  child — as  if  1  cared  for  the  lateness  or  the  lone- 
lines<.  It  is  only  happy  people  wiio  have  anything  to  fear.  All 
that  ;,i  past  for  me.  (Jo,  Ninon,  and  do  i)recise!yas  I  tell  you, 
if  vou  are  still  so  silly  as  to  have  any  love  left  for  such  as  1." 

The  pirl  obeyed  reluctantly,  hovering  aloof  on  the  landing. 
In  live  .v.inutes  the  door  opened  and  Miss  Dangerfield,  wrapped 
iu  a  velvet  mantle,  and  wearing  her  little  black  velvet  hat, 
o.j'yjj.ref!. 

*'  Vou  here  still,  Ninon  !  Do  you  know  if  Mr. — Sir  Peter 
Dj;igeiiield" — she  set  her  lips  hard  as  she  spoke  the  name — 
'*  IS  anywhere  in  the  passages  below  ?  " 

"  He  is  in  the  library,  mademoiselle." 


i 


\ 


% 


1 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


i8i 


file  Dan- 
k1  would 

|ie  stood, 

clasped 

|icvcr  left 

-her  lijis 

Jwokc  her 
loom,  like 
Ninon, 

It  iiKiy 

lOUSC  V.lll 

s  juthern 
d  so  hue, 

me.     For 

0  as  I  bid 
ce." 

iobey,  but 
:  wistfully, 
olded  her 

a  i^resent 
.nts  in  the 

mgry,  but 
i  so  long, 
Madeuioi- 

•  the  lone- 
fear.  All 
[  tell  you, 

1  as  I." 
landing. 

,  wrapped 
-'Ivet  hat. 

Sir  Peter 
J  name — 


• 


"  So  much  the  better — we  shall  not  meet,  then.  Lock  my 
door,  Ninon,  and  keep  the  key  until  my  return." 

She  glided  down  the  stairs  as  she  spoke,  dark,  ancV  noiseless 
as  a  spirit.  She  met  no  one.  Sir  Peter  was  busy  over  i)apers, 
the  servants  were  in  their  own  (juarters,  the  house  was  more 
silent  than  a  tomb.  Softly  she  opened  and  closed  the  ponder- 
ous portico  door,  and  Ihtted  out  into  the  night. 

It  was  clear,  and  cold,  and  starlight — the  moon  had  not  yet 
arisen.  \.x\  that  light  no  one  she  met  would  be  likely  to  recog- 
nize her.  The  January  wind  blew  keen  and  coid,  and  sh;; 
drew  her  fur-lined  velvet  closer  about  her,  and  sped  on  with 
swift,  light,  elastic  steps. 

Tlie  walk  was  unspeakably  lonely.  Until  the  lights  of  the 
town  gleamed  forth  through  the  starry  darkness  .^iie  did  not 
meet  a  soul.  She  had  walked  so  rapidly  that  she  was  out  of 
breath  and  in  a  glow  of  warmth.  She  slackened  her  pace  now, 
making  for  a  desertetl  back  street,  and  pausing  fmally  before  the 
(|uiet,  ••ooiiiy,  old-fashioned  hosteily  known  as  the  Silver  Rose, 

*'  Docs  a  lady  named  Mrs.  X'avasor  lodge  here  ?" 

'J'he  landlord  of  the  .Silver  Rose  started  to  his  feet  as  the  soft 
accents  fell  upon  his  ear.  The  next  moment  he  was  bowing 
low  before  the  blender,  black-robed  figure  and  the  two  grave, 
gray  eyes. 

The  Jieroine  of  the  day,  the  talk  of  the  town,  the  reputed 
daughter  of  the  late  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  stood  bef'"<'  him. 

'•  Yes,  Miss  Katherine.  Please  come  in  hout  <  the  cold. 
Mrs.  Vavasor  does  lodge  here,  but  at  present  she  ippeurs  to 
be  hout." 

"  Will  she  soon  return  ?  " 

"Well,  Miss  Katherine,  I  really  couldn't  say,  but  I  think  it 
likely.  She  don't  hoften  be  hout  heven  as  late  -^  this.  If  you 
would  please  to  come  in  and  wait,"  looking  .  c  her  doubifully 
and  pausing. 

"  If  you  will  show  me  up  to  her  room  I  will  wait,"  the  young 
lady  answered.  "  I  must  see  her  to-night.  If  yoa  knew  where 
she  was  you  might  send." 

The  landlord  shook  his  head. 

"  1  don't  know.  Miss  Dangerfield.  She  goes  hout  very  sel- 
dom and  never  stays  long.     This  way,  if  you  pit    <e." 

He  held  a  candle  aloft,  and  led  the  way  u[)stairs,  and  Hung 
open  a  door  on  the  landing  above. 

"This  be  Mrs.  Vavasor's  sittin'-room.  Take  a  seat  by  the 
fire,  Miss  Katherine,  and  I  dessay  she'll  be  halong  soon." 


l82 


BEFORE  MIDNlGirr. 


')        J 


lie  went  out  and  closed  the  door.  Katherine  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  room  and  lookt^d  about  her  with  a  certain  amount 
of  curiosity  in  her  face.  The  room  was  furnished  after  the 
fitercotype  fashion  of  such  rooms.  A  few  Fiench  novels  scat- 
tered about  were  the  only  things  to  betoken  the  indiviiiualily 
of  the  occupant.  The  door  of  the  ciiamber  opening  from  this 
apartment  s:ood  ajar,  and  looking  in  with  the  same  searching 
gaze  something  fumilia'  caught  the  girl's  eye  at  once. 

The  bed  was  an  old-fashioned  four-poster,  hung  unwhole- 
somely  with  curtains.  JJeside  this  bed  was  a  little  table,  scat- 
tered over  with  dn'r.eari;d  novels,  Parisienne  fashion  books, 
bonbonniores,  hand-mirrors,  and  other  womanly  litter.  In  the 
center  stood  an  Indian  box  of  rare  beauty  and  workmanship. 
Katherine  recogni/erl  it  in  a  moment.  It  was  one  of  hers,  a 
farewell  gift  from  a  military  friend  v/1"M1  leaving  India.  She  re- 
membered 'low  more  than  once  Mrs.  Vavasor  had  admired  it 
among  the  other  Indian  treasures  in  her  room,  liow  all  at  once 
it  had  vanished  mysteriously,  and  now,  here  it  was — Katherine's 
short  up[)er  lip  curled  scornfully. 

"  So,"  slie  said,  **you  are  a  thief,  as  well  as  an  intriguante, 
an  adventuress.  You  have  stolen  my  box.  Let  us  see  to  what 
use  you  iuive  put  poor  little  iMisign  IJrandon's  gift." 

She  walked  deliberately  into  the  slee[)ing"-room  and  took  up 
the  casket.  It  closed  and  locked  with  a  secret  spring — she 
touched  it  and  the  lid  Hew  back.  It  contained  a  slim  ])acket 
of  letters  lied  with  ribbon,  and  an  old-fashioned  miniature 
l)ain*ed  :x\  i'ory,  in  a  case  of  velvet  ornamented  with  seed 
pearl  f). 

In  v»\'cry  nature  there  are  depths  of  evil  that  come  to  light 
nnder  ihf'  inlluenct  >f  adversity.  Who  is  not  virtuous,  untempt- 
ed — who  i.s  iiOt  honorable,  untried?  The  dark  side  of  Kalh- 
crine'.s  nai.  :•.  diat  might  have  lain  dormant  and  unsuspected 
ever,  by  her.s  f  forever  ir  jie  sunshine  of  prosperity,  was  assert- 
in;,  itself  nc  v.  She  delil)erat(  ly  read  the  address  on  the 
letters.  The  i>aper  was  yellow  Vvitli  time,  the  ink  faded,  but  the 
'»old,  firm,  masculine  hand  was  pcrfecMy  legible  still.  ^'' Miss 
Jfarrut  Lc/acficiir,  ,'^  j  Rflscmary  Place,  Kcnsi?igton  " — that 
was  the  address. 

Siie  turned  from  the  letters,  pr'=*ssed  the  spring  of  the  picture 
case,  and  looked  at  the  |)ortrait  within.  Like  the  letters,  time 
had  faded  i',  but  the  bold,  masculine,  boyish  face  smiled  up  at 
her  with  a  brightness  that  even  a  score  of  years  couid  not  mar. 
It  was  the  eager,  hai-xisonic,  bearilikss  face  of  a  youth  in  thr 


I?  . 


'!» 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


183 


in  ihe 
laniount 
Iftcr  tlie 
-Is  scat- 
fitiiKility 
fom  this 
tarchiiig 

nwhole- 
'le,  scat- 
books, 
In  the 
iianship. 
'  hers,  a 
She  re- 
|inired  it 
at  once 
It'ierine's 

gnante, 
-'  to  what 

took  up 

ing-  she 
11  |)aclvet 
liniatiire 
ith  seed 

to  h'ght 
nteinpi- 
f  Kalh. 
ispected 
5  assert- 
on    the 

but  the 

''Miss 
"-tliat 

picture 
s,  time 
1  up  at 
Jt  mar. 
1  in  tlie 


I 


first  flush  of  manhood,  with  Hps  that  smiled,  and  eyes  that\»'ere 
alive. 

"A  brave,  gentlemanly  face,"  Katherine  thought.  "What 
could  a  man  like  this  ever  have  had  to  do  with  hcrl  Is  this 
the  lover  sht;  spoke  of,  from  whom  my  mother  parted  her  ?  Are 
these  letters  from  him  ?  Was  her  nanie  Harriet  I^elacheiir, 
instead  of  Harman  ?  You  may  keep  my  Indian  box,  Mrs. 
Vavasor,  and  welcome,  and  /will  keep  its  contents." 

With  the  same  steady  deliberation  she  put  the  letters  and 
]MCturc  in  her  pt)cket,  and  walked  back  into  the  other  room. 
There  was  a  hard  liglU  in  her  eyes,  an  expression  on  her  face 
not  pleasant  to  see. 

"  On  the  road  I  am  walking  there  is  no  turning  back.  To 
accomplish  the  aim  of  my  life  1  must  do  to  others  as  I  have 
been  done  by.  Mrs.  Vavasor  and  Peter  Dangerfield  shall  find 
me  an  apt  pupil.     Ah — at  last  !  here  she  is  I" 

She  turned  and  faced  the  iloor.  As  she  did  so,  it  was  thrown 
impetuously  open,  and  the  woman  she  hated  stood  before  her. 


It  was  Mrs.  Vavasor's  last  night  in  Castleford — her  last  night ; 
she  had  made  U[)  her  mind  forever. 

It  was  all  over.  The  romance,  and  revenge,  and  the  triumph 
of  her.  life  were  finished  and  done.  She  had  wrought  out  her 
vendetta  to  the  bitter  end.  Her  price  had  been  paid  twice 
over.  With  twtMity  thousand  pounds  as  her  fortune,  she  woidd 
return  to  Pan..,  launch  out  into  a  life  of  s[)lendor,  and  end  by 
marrying  a  title. 

"  I  am  still  young — still  handsome — by  gaslight,"  she  mused, 
standing  before  the  mirror,  and  surveying  herself  critically.  "  I 
am  one  of  those  fortunate  women  who  wear  well  and  light  up 
well.  The  French  are  right  in  saying  you  can't  tell  a  woman 
from  a  gnat  by  lamplight.  With  my  twenty  thousand  pounds, 
iiiy  Knowledge  of  this  wicked  worUl,  my  host  of  frienils,  what  a 
life  lies  before  me  in  my  own  delightful  city  of  sunshine.  Yes, 
to-morrow  I  will  go  ;  there  is  nodiing  tolinger  in  this  stui)id, 
plodding  country  town  for  longer — unless — unless — it  be  to  see 
her  in  her  downfall." 

She  paced  softly  up  and  down  the  little  sitting-room.  The 
hour  was  early  twilight,  an  hour  Mrs.  Vavasor  hated.  Hers 
were  no  tender  twilight  memories  to  come  with  the  misty  stars, 
(iaunt  specLcrs  of  crime,  and  shame,  and  poverty  haunted  hor- 
ribly the  dark  record  thai  lay  behind  this  woman'.     So  the  cur- 


p 


b ' 


184 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


tainr.  were  drawn,  and  the  lamj)  lit,  and  tlic  fircliglit  flickeied  on 
the  masses  of  braided  black  hair  and  the  traihng  robe  of  wine 
silk. 

*'  I  should  like  to  sec  her  in  the  hour  of  her  downfall,"  she 
repeated.  "  I  should  like  to  see  her  mother's  dauL;h!.er  in  the 
l^overty  and  pain  I  have  felt.  And  I  shall  one  day,  but  not 
liere.  Somehow  — I  am  neither  sn[)erstitious  nor  a  coward,  but 
I  feel  half  afraid  to  meet  that  girl.  I  can  see  her  now,  as  she 
came  gliding  forward  in  tliat  ghostly  way  in  her  bridal  dress,  that 
face  of  white  stone,  and  those  wild,  wide  eyes.  Ah  !  my 
lady!  my  lady!  In  tlie  hour  vX  yiur  triuui|)h  how  little  you 
dreamed  lliat  my  day  wouUl  conic  too." 

She  walked  softly  up  and  down,  a  subtle  and  most  evil  smile 
on  her  dark  small  face.  The  striking  of  the  little  clock  on  the 
mantel  aroused  her ;  it  was  eight,  and  she  had  an  errand  in 
Castleford  before  all  the  shops  closed  for  the  night. 

She  put  on  her  bonnet,  wrap[)ed  herself  in  a  large  flufty 
shawl,  nnd  tripped  away.  She  was  barely  in  time  to  reach  the 
station  \ -hither  she  was  bound  before  the  shopman  locked  his 
dofir.  She  bade  liim  good-night  in  her  sweetest  tones,  and 
walketl  homeward,  glancing  u|>  at  the  great  winter  stars  burning 
in  the  purple,  bright  sk}'. 

"  And  Sir  John  is  dead,  and  Sir  Peter  reigns !  Sic  transit 
glor-a  viundi !  Poor  little  pitiful  wretch  !  it  was  like  wringing 
his  very  heart's  blood  to  part  with  his  beloved  guineas  to  me 
yesterday.  I  wonder  how  he  and  my  haughty  Kalherine,  my 
queen  uncrowned,  get  on  together  up  at  the  great  house,  and  I 
wonder  how  my  handso.ue  (laston  does  this  cold  January  night. 
Ugh  !  "  She  shivered  under  iier  furred  wiaps.  She  wa^  a  chilly 
little  woman.  "This  beastly  JJritish  climate  1  And  to  think  ! 
to  think  that  but  for  me  she  would  be  far  away  in  fair  foreign 
laiuls  by  this  lime,  enjoying  !ier  honeymoon,  the  bride  of  a  man 
;Miv'  adored  !  Ves — 1  may  go  ;  no  revenge  was  ever  more  com- 
plete tha.  \  mine." 

She  was  singing  softly  to  herself  as  she  ascended  the  stairs. 
£\  crytiiing  had  gone  so  well !  She  had  had  her  vengeance  and 
made  he'-  fortune  at  one  c!e\  ei  throw,  and  after  to-night  a  long 
vista  of  Parisian  i)leasures  and  Parisian  life  lloated  before  her 
in  a  rosy  mist.  \\'it!i  th.e  opera  tune  on  her  lips  she  opened 
her  dojr  and  stood  face  to  face  with — Kathorine  Dangerfield. 

She  strotl  stock  still.  The  song  died  on  her  lips,  the  sudden 
swift  pallor  that  overspread  her  face  showed  ■  rough  all  the 
peail  powder  she  wore.     She  had  said  she  was  ..    r:ovvard,  and 


I 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


185 


cd  on 

wine 

,"  she 

in  the 

nt  not 

{),  but 

:is  she 

is,  (hat 

■>  !  niy 

Ic  you 

lUlg 


1^ 


I 


.-*; 
«* 


she  was  not,  but  in  this  hour  she  stood  afraid  to  the  very  core, 
to  face  tliis  girl  slie  luid  wronged. 

Katherine  had  arisen  and  stood  beside  her,  and  Katheilne 
was  tlie  fust  to  speak. 

"  Come  in,  Mrs.  Vavasor — tfic  room  is  your  own.  And  you 
need  not  look  such  a  picture  of  abject  terror.  1  haven't  come 
here  to  murder  you— to-night." 

Her  voice  was  perfectly  clear,  perfectly  steady.  An  angry 
sullen ik;ss  came  to  the  elder  woman's  relief  She  came  i),, 
closed  the  door,  and  faced  defuintly  her  foe. 

"This  is  a  most  unexi)ected  pleasure,  Miss  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfield.     To  what  do  1  owe  it  ?  " 

"And  as  unwelcome  as  unexpected,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  is  it  not? 
To  what  (\o  you  owe  it  ?  Well,  there  are  woukmi  alive — or 
girls,  if  you  will,  for  1  am  only  a  girl — who  would  have  given 
you  back  death  for  less  ruin  than  you  have  wrought  me.  Oh, 
yes,  Mrs.  Vavasor,  I  mean  what  1  say — death  !  lUit  I  am  not 
cf  that  sort  ;  I  am  one  of  the  i)acific  kind,  and  i  content  my- 
self by  coming  here  and  only  asking  a  few  questions.  I  per- 
ceive there  was  no  time  to  lose.  1  hear  you  leave  Castleford 
to-morrow." 

"  1  do."  The  widow's  thin  lips  were  shut  in  a  hard,  unpleas- 
ant line  now,  and  her  voice  was  sullen.  "  Permit  me  to  add 
that  1  am  in  somewhat  of  a  hurry,  and  that  the  hour  is  late.  I 
must  pack  before  I  retire.  I  quit  Castleford  to-morrow  by  the 
very  fust  train." 

"Ah!  Naturally,  Castleford  can't  be  a  pleasant  place  for 
you  to  remain.  You  are  not  i^opular  here  at  present,  Mrs. 
Vavasor.  I  will  not  detain  you  long.  Of  course  it  is  at  your 
own  option  whether  you  answer  my  questions  or  not." 

"  Of  course.     Wiiat  can  i  do  for  you.  Miss  Dangerfield  ?" 

She  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  stretched  out  her  daintily 
booted  feet  to  the  lire,  and  looked  across  with  the  same  defiant 
face  at  her  enemy.  And  yet  her  heart  misgave  her.  That  col- 
orless face,  with  its  tense,  set  expression,  its  curious  calm, 
frightened  her  more  than  any  words,  any  threats  could  have 
done. 

Katherine  turned  her  grave  eyes  from  the  fire,  clasped  her 
hands  together  on  the  little  table  between  them,  and  leaned 
Slightly  forward  as  she  s[)oke. 

"  Miss  Dangerfield  is  not  my  name.  You  are  the  only  one 
who  knows.     Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  No— decidedly." 


'■":*£■  ie¥A*^f.*.-^.-^..a*»;'.«wit« 


1 86 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


■\ 


"  That  is  one  of  the  questions  you  will  not  answer.  Here  if 
another :  Is  my  fithcr  alive  ?  " 

"  He  is." 

"  My  niolhcr  is  dcail     really  dead?" 

"As  (lead  as  Queen  Anne,  Miss  DaMgcrfuld.  I  suppose  we 
may  as  well  continue  to  call  yr)U  so  to  the  last,  for  convenience 
sake.  Your  mother  is  dead  — and,  Katherine,  you've  been 
brought  up  a  Christian,  and  all  that,  and  you  ought  to  know. 
J)o  you  suppose  the  dead  see  what  goes  on  in  this  reeling, 
rocking  little  globe  of  ours?  IJecause  if  the)'  do,  I  sincerely 
hope  your  late  lamented  maternal  parent  is  looking  down  upon 
you  and  me  at  this  moment." 

"  \'ou  are  a  good  hater,  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Now  I  should  like 
to  know  what  my  mother  ever  did  to  you  to  inspire  such  deep, 
and  bitter,  and  lasting  hate.  You  hated  her  alive,  you  hale  her 
dead,  and  you  visit  that  hale,  as  bitter  as  ever,  years  and  years 
after,  upon  her  child.  1  don't  blame  you,  mind  ;  I  don't  say  I 
would  not  do  the  same  m)self,  under  certain  circumstances ; 
only  I  am  very  curious  to  know  all  about  it." 

JVIrs.  A'avasor  looked  at  her  fUjubt fully. 

*']r'//  hale,"  she  said,  "and  you  talk  to  me  like  ihis — to  nif 
of  all  people  alive.  You  hale — you  who  sit  there  so  quietly, 
and  speak  like  this  after  all  the  trouble  and  shame  tliat  would 
drive  most  girls  mad.  1  don't  think  you  know  what  hate 
means." 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  came  over  Katherinc's  face.  She 
looked  silently  across  at  the  speaker  for  an  instant,  that  slow, 
curious  smile  her  only  answer. 

"  We  won't  discuss  thai  "  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  came  of  a 
weak  and  pusillanimous  race,  and  ihere  is  so  much  of  ihe  s|)an- 
iel  in  my  nature  that  I  am  ready  to  kiss  the  hand  that  hits 
hardest.  Never  mind  me.  Time  is  passing,  Mrs.  Vavasor ; 
do  one  generous  thing  to  your  enemy  at  the  last — tell  her  some- 
thing more  of  her  own  story.  You  have  had  fidl  and  complete 
revenge — you  can  afford  to  be  magnanimous  now." 

The  perfect  coolness  of  this  unexpected  address  won  its  end. 
Mrs.  Vavasor,  plucky  herself,  admired  pluck  in  others,  and  all 
women,  good  or  bail,  act  on  impulse. 

"  You  are  a  cool  hand,"  she  saitl,  with  something  of  admira- 
tion in  her  tone,  "and  1  may  tell  you  this — you  are  of  no  weak 
or  cowardly  race  ;  the  blood  that  Hows  in  your  veins  has  been 
bitter,  bad  blood  in  its  day.  And  you  would  like  to  know 
something  more  o''  your  mother  ?     Your  mother  I  "     Her  eyeg 


jlcre  i 


la 


|ose  we 

lie  nee 

been 

know. 
rc'clinjT, 

iceicl)' 
[n  u\Hm 

Id  like 

(iocp, 

ate  her 

II  years 

"t  say  I 

ances : 


to  nic 
quietly, 
t  woukl 
It   hate 

;.     She 
t  slow, 

c  of  a 

.'  s|)an- 
vdt  hits 
vasor ; 
sonio- 
nplete 

s  end. 
nd  all 

iinira- 
wealc  ■ 

been 
know 

eye? 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT.  xS/ 

turned  thoughtfully  ujion  the  fire,  her  mind  wandered  back  to 
the  past.  "  1  can  see  her  r^ow  standing  before  nie  as  plainly 
as  I  used  to  see  her  twenl)'  years  ai^o,  tall  and  stately.  You 
are  like  her,  Katherine — the  same  gracefid  walk,  the  face  at 
once  proud-looking  and  plain  lookiiv.; — the  dress  of  black  and 
orange,  or  purple  or  crimson — she  had  a  passion  iox  bright 
colois,  and  the  ilark  red  (lowers  she  used  to  wear  in  her  hair. 
You  are  like  her,  and  a  little  like  your  father,  too  ;  his  way  of 
smiling  and  speaking  at  times.  You  are  mo^t  like  hini  now  as 
you  sit  there,  so  (luiel,  so  di;ep,  so  resolute.  Katherine,  you  will 
make  your  way  in  the  worUl,  I  think — women  like  you  always  do." 

'*  Will  you  go  on,  Mrs.  V\avasor?  Once  more,  never  mind 
nic," 

Mrs.  Vavasor  laughed — all  her  airy,  easy  self  again. 

"  .And  you  really  are  anxious  like  this  to  know  why  I  hated — 
why  I  still  hate  your  dead  mother?  Well — I  am  in  the  humor 
to  |,Maiify  you  to-night — I  have  locked  the  i)ast  so  closely  up 
for  such  a  length  of  time,  that  it  is  something  of  a  relief  and  a 
pleasure  to  unlock  it  to-night.  Hut  to  think  I  should  tell  it  to 
you — to  you  I  #These  things  come  about  so  queerly — life  is  all 
so  queer — such  a  di/zy,  whirling,  merry  go-round,  and  we  all 
jinn[)ing-jacks,  who  just  dance  as  our  strings  aie  pulled.  And 
they  call  us  resi)onsible  beings,  and  they  tell  us  we  can  shape 
our  own  lives !  Why  look  yoii.  I  might  have  been  a  gooi! 
woman — a  rich  woman — a  model  I'.riiish  matron — sittiuij  at 
the  head  of  a  husband's  table — bringing  up  children  in  the  way 
they  should  walk,  going  three  times  every  Sunday  to  church, 
visiting  the  poor  of  the  parish,  distributing  tracts  and  blankets 
at  Christmas,  and  dying  at  last  full  of  years,  and  good  works, 
and  having  my  virtues  inscribed  in  letters  of  gold  on  a  granite 
shaft.  I  might  have  been  all  this,  Miss  DangerfieUl,  and  I 
wanted  to  be,  but  that  dead  mother  of  yours  stepped  forward, 
interposed  her  wand  of  authority,  and  lo  !  to-day,  and  for  the 
past  eighteen  years,  I  have  been  a  IJohemian — houseless,  friend- 
less, penniless,  and  rcputationless.  Now,  listen — here  is  the 
story.  No  names,  mind  ;  no  questions  when  I  have  done.  All 
you  are  to  know  1  will  tell  you.  Your  father  lives — you  have 
hosts  of  relatives  alive,  for  that  matter,  but  1  don't  mean  you 
shall  ever  see  or  know  any  of  them." 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  playec,  with  her  watch-chain, 
looked  at  the  fire,  and  told  her  story  in  rai)id  words. 

"  Your  mother  was  just  my  age  when  1  first  knew  her — a 
little  the  elder,  I  think — and  just  married.     She  wasn't  hand- 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0  Jo    ""      ' 


12.5 


I.I 


12.0 


1.25 


U   lil.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


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V 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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5 


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BEFORE  MIDNIGHT, 


I   ! 


'^ 


,4 


-4     - 


some,  but  somehow  she  was  attractive — most  people  liked  h(;r 
— I  did  myself  for  a  time.  And  she  was  a  great  heiress,  she 
was  the  wife  of  the  handsomest  man  in  England,  and  slie  loved 
him — ah,  well !  as  you  loved  poor  Mr.  Dantree,  perha[)s,  and 
not  much  more  wisely. 

"  I  lived  with  her — never  mind  in  what  capacity  ;  I  lived 
with  her,  and  knew  more  of  her  than  any  other  human  being 
alive,  including  her  husband.  Indeed  after  the  honeymoon — 
and  Jioiu  he  used  to  yawn  and  smoke  during  the  honeymoon — 
he  saw  as  little  of  her  as  possible.  She  was  the  woman  he  was 
married  to,  and  the  woman  he  loved  was  as  beautiful  as  all  the 
angels,  and  not  worth  a  farthing.  It's  a  very  old  state  of 
things,  Miss  Dangerficld — nothing  novel  about  it.  Your 
mother  was  frantically  jealous,  and  having  the  temper  of  a 
spoiled  child,  made  his  lor — 1  mean,  made  your  father's  life  a 
martyrdom,  with  endless  tears  and  reproaches.  When  she  sat 
sobbing  sometimes,  swelling  her  eyes,  and  reddening  her  no:  e, 
and  looking  very  ugly,  I  used  to  rity  her,  and  once  I  ventured 
to  offer  my  humble  sympathy,  and  call  my — her  husband  a 
wretch.  Do  you  know  how  she  received  it  ?  SIhe  jumped  up 
and  slapped  my  face." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  Katherine  said,  with  composure. 
"  She  served  you  right." 

"Ah!  no  doubt!  Pb/^r  would  have  done  the  same,  I  am 
sure.  Well,  it  was  about  that  time  the  romance  of  my  life 
began.  Your  mother's  brother  came  from  Ireland  to  make  her 
a  visit,  and  we  met.  He  was  only  twenty ;  I  was  your  age, 
seventeen.  He  was  handsome  and  poor — your  mother  had  got 
all  the  money,  he  all  the  beauty  of  the  family.  I  was — my 
modesty  makes  me  hesitate  to  say  it — considered  pretty  in  those 
days — that  is,  in  a  certain  gypsy  style  of  prettiness.  It  was  a 
style  that  suited  him,  at  least,  and  we  looked  at  each  other,  and 
fell  in  love,  and  earth  turned  to  Paradise,  and  we  were  among 
the  blest. 

*'  I  don't  need  to  tell  you  what  followed,  do  I  ? — the  meet- 
ings by  chance,  the  appointments,  the  twilight  walk,  the  moon- 
light rambles,  the  delicious  blissful  folly  of  it  all  ?  No  need  to 
tell  you — your  own  experience  is  recent.  Let  me  skip  the 
sentimental  and  keep  to  hard  facts.  A  month  passed — court- 
ship progresses  rapidly  with  two  people  of  twenty  and  seven- 
teen. We  were  engaged  and  we  must  be  married  at  once,  or 
life  would  be  insupportable.  But  how  ?  Youths  of  twenty  and 
girls  of  seventeen  cannot  marry  clandestinely  and  yet  legally 


2, 


1 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


189 


Kir 

fed 

nd 

Aed 


ing 


•as 
he 
of 

f  a 
"e  a 
sat 

e, 
red 

a 
up 


J 


In  England,  except  under  very  great  difficulties — under  perjury, 
in  fact.  As  deeply  as  he  adored  me,  he  was  not  prepared  to 
perjure  himself  on  my  account.  We  must  try  a  Scotch  mar- 
riaG;e  for  it — there  was  nothing  else — and  think  about  the  le- 
gality  afterward.  He  was  poor — I  was  poorer.  What  we 
were  to  live  on  after  marriage  was  an  unanswerable  question. 
We  never  tried  to  answer  it — we  must  be  married  first  at  all 
risks — time  enough  to  think  of  all  these  prosaic  details  after. 

"No  one  suspected  our  secret — his  folly  and  my  presump- 
tion, that  is  what  they  termed  it.  We  had  fixed  the  day  of  our 
flight — we  had  packed  our  portmanteaus — in  less  than  a  week 
we  would  be  in  Scotland,  and  united  as  fast  as  Scottish  mar- 
riage laws  can  unite,  when  all  of  a  sudden  my  la — your  mother's 
sharp,  gray  eyes  were  opened  and  saw  the  truth.  A  note  of 
his  to  me  fell  into  her  hands  and  she  opened  and  read  it.  Not 
an  honorable  thing  to  do — eh,  Katherine  ?  .  It  told  her  all — of 
our  flight  in  two  days,  of  our  proi)Osed  marriage — all, 

"  I  have  told  you,  Katherine,  that  you  are  like  your  mother. 
You  are.  You  have  taken  all  your  troubles  quietly,  and  made 
no  outcry,  no  complaint.  She  took  things  quietly,  too.  Three 
hours  after  she  got  that  nbte  she  came  to  me,  quiet,  composed, 
and  determined. 

"  '  Harriet,'  she  said,  '  I  am  going  into  the  country  for  a  day 
— only  a  day.  Pack  a  few  things  and  be  ready  to  accompany 
me  in  an  hour.' 

"  I  stood  confounded.  He  was  away  ;  what  would  he  say 
when  he  came  back.  But  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  disobey, 
and  then — only  for  a  day.    We  would  be  back  in  time  after  all. 

"  For  a  day  !  Katherine,  she  never  stopped  until  we  were 
in  Cornwall.  She  had  an  uncle,  a  rector  there  ;  he  and  his 
wife  lived  in  a  lonesome  old  gray  house  on  the  sea-coast.  It 
was  late  at  night  when  the  rumbling  stage-coach  brought  us  to 
the  door ;  and  I  was  worn  out  with  fatigue.  I  asked  for  some 
tea  ;  my— your  mother  gave  it  to  me  graciously,  with  her  own 
hand,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  sleeping  potion  in  the  cup. 

"  '  You  must  be  tired,  my  poor  Harriet,'  she  said ;  *and  you 
didn't  think  we  were  coming  all  the  way  to  Cornwall.  No 
more  did  I,  but  I  took  a  sudden  fancy  to  pay  the  old  place  a 
flying  visit.' 

"  '  A  flying  visit  ? '  I  repeated  wearily.    '  Then  you  mean — ' 

*'  'To  return  to  town  to-morrow,  my  dear  child.  Certainly 
you  don't  suppose  /  could  exist  here,  and  in  the  height  of  the 
London  season  too  ?     But  I  think  country  air  and  solitude  will 


i 


190 


BEFORE  MIDNIGHT. 


do  you  good.     Good  night,  Harriet ;  you  look  sleepy ;  don't 
let  me  keep  you  awake.' 

'*  I  remember  her  laughing  as  she  went  out,  then  my  eyelids 
swayed  and  fell,  and  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  drugged. 
.  "  The  noon  sunshine  of  the  next  (lay  filled  my  room  when  I 
awoke.  I  was  still  lying  back  in  my  chair,  dressed.  I  had  not 
been  to  bed.  My  head  ached,  my  eyes  felt  hot  and  heavy — I 
was  unused  to  opium  in  any  shape  then,  and  its  effects  sickened 
nie.  I  struggled  wearily  with  memory.  With  a  sharp  i^ang  I 
recollected  it  was  the  day  fixed  for  my  wedding  day,  and  I  was 
here  alone,  and  he  was — where  ? 

"And  she  had  done  it  all.  The  first  glow  of  that  fire  of 
quenchless  hate  that  has  burned  ever  since  kindled  in  my  heart 
then.  I  went  downstairs  sullenly  enough,  and  asked  the  rec- 
tor's lady  for  my  mist — for  your  mother.  And  the  rector's  lady 
— in  the  secret  too — laughed  in  my  face  and  told  me  she  was 
gone.  Gone  !  While  I  slept,  she  was  fa»"  on  her  way  back  to 
town,  and  I  was  left  behind,  without  a  penny  in  my  pocket,  a 
prisoner  in  this  stupid  Cornish  rectory. 

"  Katherine,  I  shall  pass  over  that  time.  It  is  nearly  twenty 
years  ago,  but  to  this  day  I  can't  look  back  without  some  of 
the  frantic  misery  and  pain  I  endured  then.  I  was  only  seven- 
teen,  in  love,  and  a  fool ;  but  the  pain  of  fools  is  as  hard  to 
bear  as  the  pain  of  wise  men.  I  understood  it  all — I  was  never 
to  see  him  again.  She  had  found  us  out,  and  this  was  her  plot ! 
I  threw  myself  face  downward  on  the  floor  of  my  room,  and  lay 
there  for  twelve  hours,  neither  moving,  nor  eating,  nor  speak- 
ing. And  then  I  got  up  and  went  downstairs  and — kept  si- 
lent, still,  and  waited. 

'•Two  months  passed  away — two  months.  A  short  time 
enough,  as  I  reckon  time  now — an  eternity  then.  My  order 
of  release  came  at  the  end  of  that  time.  Old  Markham,  the 
butler,  was  sent  for  me,  and  I  was  taken  back  to  town.  I 
asked  him  just  one  question  on  the  road. 

"  *  Where  was  young  Mr. ? '  and  I  got  the  answer  I  looked 

for.     Mr  had  joined  the  — th  Rifles,  and  gone  out  to  Can- 
ada a  fortnirrht  before. 

"  I  said  no  more.  I  went  back  to  town  ;  and  your  mother 
and  I  met.  She  looked  a  little  afraid  of  me  in  that  first  mo- 
ment— and  slie  had  reason. 

"'You  must  forgive  my  running  away  and  leaving  you, 
Harriet,'  she  said.  'It  was  a  whim  of  mine,  a  practical  joke, 
knowing  how  you  hate  the  country,  you  child  of  London.     It 


u 


BEFORE  MWmCIIT. 


191 


)n't 

[lids 

In  I 
Jnot 
|— I 
|ned 

^gl 
Iwas 


- 


waiting-maid- 


-you 


1 


won't  happen  again,  and  I  have  hosts  of  presents  for  you  that 
I  know  you  will  be  charmed  with.' 

"  I  thanked  her,  and  took  the  presents — took  everything  that 
was  given  to  me,  and  bided  my  time.  I  knew,  just  as  well  as 
though  she  had  told  me,  how  she  had  laughed  and  ridiculed  her 
brother  into  the  army,  and  out  of  England.  I  knew  it  all,  and 
she  knew  that  I  knew  it,  but  we  never  spoke  of  it — never  once 
— until  the  hour  of  her  death. 

"  There,  Katherine  !  that  is  my  story  ;  that  is  the  secret  of 
my  hatred  of  your  mother.    Don't  you  think  she  deserved  it  ?  " 

"  From  you — yes,"  Katherine  answered  promptly  ;  "  at  the 
same. time  I  think  she  did  exactly  right.  She  knew  what  you 
were,  doubtless,  and  took  the  only  means  of  saving  her  brother. 
Gentlemen  and  officers  don't,  as  a  rule,  marry  their  sisters' 
waiting  maids." 

Mrs.  Vavasor  sprang  to  her  feet.  That  random  arrow  had 
sped  home. 

"It  is  false!"  she  gasped.     "I  was  no 
know  nothing  — " 

"  It  is  true  ! "  exclaimed  Katherine,  also  rising.  "  You 
were  a  waiting-maid — and  -I  know  all  I  desire  to  know  at  pres- 
ent. My  mother  was  a  lady,  her  brother  was  an  officer  in  the 
— th  Rilles,  my  father  lives  and  will  recognize  his  old  servant 
when  he  sees  her,  Harriet  I.elacheur  ! " 

Mrs.  Vavasor  stood  white,  terrified,  dumb.  Good  Heavens  ! 
what  a  fool  she  had  been  to  speak  at  all  to  such  a  girl  as  this. 

"  You  see  I  know  your  real  name,  among  your  many  aliases. 
As  I  have  found  out  that,  so  I  shall  find  out  all  the  rest.  As 
surely  as  we  both  live  and  stand  here,  I  shall  one  day  discover 
my  father  and  punish  you.  I  devote  my  life  to  that  purpose — 
to  finding  out  who  I  am,  that  I  may  be  revenged  on  my  ene- 
mies. On  you,  on  Peter  Dangerfield,  on  Gaston  Dantree.  I 
si.all  one  day  be  avenged  for  all  the  bitter,  cruel  wrong  you 
have  done  me.  I  am  only  a  girl,  alone  in  the  world,  without 
friends  or  mone}',  but  I  shall  keep  my  word.  Secretly  and  in 
the  dark  as  you  have  worked,  so  I  shall  work,  and  when  my 
lime  comes  the  mercy  you  have  shown  will  be  dealt  back  to 
you.  Now  good-night,  Mrs.  Vavasor.  .We  understand  each 
other,  1  think." 

She  oi)ened  the  door,  looked  back  once,  darkly,  menacingly, 
then  it  closed  after  her,  and  she  was  gone. 

Ninon  sat  up  for  her  mistress.  It  was  close  upon  midnight 
when  that  mistress  reached  Scarswood.     But  she  felt  no  fatigue 


192 


**RESURGAM** 


— some  inward  spirit,  wliether  of  good  or  evil,  sustained  her. 
As  she  parted  with  the  girl  she  laid  two  sovereigns  in  herliand. 

*'  You  have  been  a  good  girl,  Ninon,"  she  said,  kindly,  "  to 
a  very  capricious  mistress.  Thank  you  for  all  your  patience, 
and  good-night." 

She  went  to  her  room,  but  not  to  sleep.  It  was  disordered 
— she  set  it  to  rights.  Her  jewels — all — lay  in  their  velvet  and 
ivory  caskets,  her  rich  dresses  hung  in  the  wardrobe  and  clos- 
ets, her  bridal  dress  among  them.  She  took  a  small  portman- 
teau, packed  a  few  articles  of  dress  and  linen,  a  few  of  her  most 
cherished  presents,  one  or  two  books  and  souvenirs,  closed  and 
locked  it.  Then,  still  dressed  as  she  was,  she  sat  down  by  the 
window  and  waited  for  the  dawn. 

It  came — rosy  and  golden,  and  touched  the  eastern  windows 
into  flame.  Then  she  arose,  and  taking  the  portmanteau  in 
her  hand,  went  softly  out  down  the  stairs  and  along  to  that  door 
in  the  trnet  by  which  she  had  gone  out  and  come  in  last  night. 
She  closed  it  noiselessly — the  household  were  not  yet  astir — 
and  walked  rapidly  down  the  crisp,  frozen  avenue  to  the  gates. 
The  rising  sun  shot  red  lances  through  the  brown  boles  of  the 
"trees,  gilded  the  many  windows  and  turrets  and  tall  chimneys 
of  the  old  hall,  making  a  wonderfully  bright  and  fair  picture  of 
early  morning  beauty,  had  she  but  turned  to  see. 

But  she  never  once  looked  back. 


si 

gi 
tl 

r 

V 
V 

e 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


RESURGAM.' 


I  J'\ 


|ND  how  is   your  patient  to-night,    Mrs.  Otis?     Any 
change  for  the  better  yet  ?  " 

Dr.  Graves  asked  the  question,  blustering  in  like  the 
god  of  the  wind.  A  high  gale  roared  without,  a  few 
feathery  flakes  floated  past  the  windows  in  the  stormy  twil'ght. 
In  the  little  sitting-room  of  the  widow  Otis'  cottage  a  bright 
fire  burned  cheeril}'-,  the  red,  warm  light  streaming  through  the 
'  indow-curtains  far  out  upon  the  frost-bound  road. 

A  frost-bound  and  lonely  road,  utterly  forsaken  this  bleak 
January  afternoon,  on  the  very  outskirts  of  Castleford,  a  full 


**RESURGAM." 


193 


her. 
liand. 
"to 
[lence, 

jdered 
|et  and 
clos- 
ftman- 
most 
id  and 
py  the 


quarter  of  a  mile  from  any  other  habitation,  and  flanked  on  one 
side  by  a  low,  gray  Methodist  chai)el  set  in  the  center  of  a 
graveyard.  The  white  and  gray  headstones  glimmered  athwart 
the  wintry  gloaming,  now,  like  white  and  gray  ghosts. 

JVLi-s.  Otis,  sitting  placidly  before  her  pleasant  fire,  got  up  as 
Dr.  Graves  come  noisily  in.  She  was  the  neatest  of  all  little 
women,  done  up  in  a  spotless  dress  of  bombazine,  a  spotless 
white  neckerchief  and  widow's  cap,  and  a  pale,  placid,  moth- 
erly face. 

"Good  evening.  Dr.  Graves.  I  thought  it  was  Henry. 
Come  to  the  fire — bitterly  cold,  is  it  not,  outside  ?  My  patient 
— well  /  don't  see  much  improvement  there,  but  Henry  says 
he  improves,  and  of  course  Henry  knows  best.  Take  this 
chair — do,  and  try  and  thaw  out." 

Dr.  Graves  took  the  cushioned  rocker,  and  spread  himself 
out  luxuriously  to  the  blaze. 

"  Where  is  Henry  ?     I  wanted  to  see  him." 

"  Oh,  among  his  poor  patients  somewhere — he  will  be  along 
to  tea  presently.     Any  news  to-night,  doctor  ?     I  mean — " 

"  You  mean  the  Scarswood  tragedy,  of  course,  ma'am — no- 
body in  Sussex,  I  believe,  t.alks  of  anything  else  latterly.  No. 
no  news,  and  no  news  in  this  case  does  not  mean  good  news. 
The  funeral  is  over,  as  you  know,  and  there  is  no  will,  and 
everything  falls  to  that  pitiful,  pettifogging  litde  screw  of  an  at- 
torney, Peter  Dangerfield — everything,  Mrs.  Otis — everything. 
He's  Sir  Peter  now ;  and  among  all  the  baronets  who  have 
reigned  at  Scarswood  since  the  days  of  James  I.,  I  don't  believe 
such  a  baronet  ever  disgraced  a  good  old  name.  She's  not  got 
a  rap,  not  a  farthing,  ma'am — poor  as  a  church  mouse,  and 
poorer,  for  church  mice  can  steal,  if  they  get  a  chance,  and  she 
can't.  She's  pot  to  work  now,  Mrs.  Otis — got  to  go  out  into 
the  hard  world  and  earn  the  bread  and  beef  of  everyday  life. 
Nursery  governess  or  something  of  that  sort;  she  isn't  qualified 
even  for  that,  poor  thing  !  poor  thing  ! " 

"  But,  Doctor  Graves,  this  seems  a  little  too  dreadful — too 
cruel.  Where  are  all  her  friends — all  our  resident  gentry? 
Must  all  turn  their  backs  upon  her  because  she  chancer  not  to 
be  Sir  John's  real  daughter  ?" 

"She's  down  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Otis,  and  it's  the  way  of  the 
world  to  speed  the  miserable  sinner  who  falls  with  a  parting 
kick.  Still  in  this  case  a  few  have  come  forward  and  offered 
her  a  home  generously  enough — the  Talbots,  for  instance,  and 
old  Mansfield  the  lawyer.  But  she's  a  young  woman  of  a  very 
9 


194 


**RESURGAnV' 


mu 


uncommon  stamp,  ma'am,  and  charity's  charity,  gloss  it  over  a's 
you  may.  She  has  acted  very  strangely  from  tlie  first,  in  the 
last  way  any  reasonable  man  might  expect.  But  you  never  can 
tell  by  what  you  previously  knew  of  her  how  a  woman  will  act 
in  any  given  emergency.  The  Turks  and  other  heathens  who 
don't  treat  them  as  rational  beings  are  in  the  right  of  it.  They're 
not !  Don't  laugh,  Mrs.  Otis,  it's  nothing  to  laugh  at.  There's 
that  yoimg  woman  !  Quick-tempered,  passionate,  proud,  gen- 
erous, loving,  just  the  sort  of  young  woman  to  break  out  into 
tears  and  hysterics,  and  sobs  and  reproaches,  making  the  place 
too  hot  for  everybody,  tearing  her  hair  and  rending  her  gar- 
ments. Well,  how  does  she  act  instead  ?  Sits  there  like  a 
stone,  never  says  a  word,  never  sheds  a  tear,  and  broods, 
brc.i  "!s  in  sullen  silence,.  Women  who  don't  cry  and  scold  are 
vc-r<,n  to  be  distrusted,  ma'am.  If  I  had  seen  her  in  hysterics 
I  ,,uuld  have  pitied  her  ;  as  it  is  1  honestly  declare  she  fright- 
ens me.  Now  then,  ma'am,  I'll  take  a  look  at  our  wounded 
snake  in  the  grass,  and  be  off  before  it  gets  any  later  and 
colder." 

He  jumped  up  and  stalked  away  to  a  large,  airy  chamber 
opening  off  this  cosey  sitting-room.  Like  everything  else  in 
and  around  the  widow's  cottage,  it  was  daintily  neat  and  clean. 
The  last  rays  of  the  chill  January  day  came  through  the  muslin 
curtains  and  fell  upon  Gaston  Dantree,  lying  motionless  upon 
the  bed. 

It  was  an  awfully  death-like  face — in  his  coffin  the  man 
would  hardly  look  more  ghastly,  more  utterly  bloodless  and 
lifeless  than  now.  His  faint  breathing,  his  fluttering  pulse 
were  barely  perceptible — no  more.  His  damp,  dark  hair  fell 
loose  and  curly  over  the  white  pillows,  and  in  all  its  spectral 
bloodlessness  his  rarely  perfect  f\ice  kept  its  dark  Southern 
beauty  still. 

Dr.  Graves  took  his  wrist  between  his  fingers  and  thumb, 
drew  out  his  watch,  gave  his  head  a  little  professional  shake, 
and  prepr  -ed  to  count  with  that  owl-like  solemnity  of  visage 
venerable  pnysicians  counting  a  patient's  pulse  ever  do  wear. 

And  over  her  coal  fire  little  Mrs.  Otis  sat  and  nuised  sadly 
enough  en  the  fate  of  that  unhappy  young  lady  who  a  few  brief 
days  ago  had  been  the  brightest  and  most  blissful  of  petted 
hcii  esses  and  happy  brides  elect. 

"And  how  strange  among  all  she  kne;^ — Dr.  Graves  and  all 
— she  should  have  chosen  my  Henry  to  come  forward  and  cure 
the  man  she  loved,"  she  thought  with  that  glow  of  pride  widowed 


-">. 


i 


■■HWI 


"  RESVP.GAM" 


195 


ver  a's 

in  the 
or  can 
ill  act 
s  who 
hey' re 
here's 
gcn- 
t  into 
place 
•  gar- 
ike  a 
oods, 
jid  are 
sterics 


V 


mothers  of  only  sons  always  feel.  "  No  doubt  she  knew,  if 
others  are  too  stupid  to  find  it  out,  how  clever  he  is,  how  good, 
how  thoughtful,  how  kind  !  No  woman  could  ever  be  more 
tender  in  a  sick  room  than  he  ;  and  if  it  be  ])ossiblc  for  earthly 
physician  or  earthly  drugs  to  bring  this  ill  fated  young  man 
round,  Henry  is  the  one  to  do  it.  But  I  doubt  it — I  doubt  it. 
He  looks  like  death,  and  he  knows  nothing  or  nobody.  Hark ! 
here  is  Henry  now  !  " 

She  started  forward.  The  front  hall  door  opened,  a  quick 
footstep  crossed  the  passage,  the  sitting-room  door  was  liung 
wide,  and  Mr.  Henry  Otis,  "booted  and  spurred,"  stood  pale 
as  a  ghost  before  his  mother. 

"  Henry  !  "  the  word  was  a  low,  frightened  cry,  but  Henry 
Otis'  eyes  turned  from  her  to  the  bedroom. 

"  Is  she  here  ?  Who  is  that  ?  "  He  strode  across  the  room 
to  the  inner  chamber,  then  fell  back  with  a  look  of  sick  disap- 
pointment. "Dr.  Graves  !"  he  said,  "only  you.  And  I  was 
sure  I  should  find  her  here." 

"  Find  whom  here  ?     What  do  you  mean,  young  man  ?  " 

"I  mean  Miss  Dangerfield.  What !  don't  you  know?  She 
ran  away  either  last  night  or  this  morning  from  Scarswood,  and 
no  tale  or  tidings  of  her  are  to  be  found.  1  thought  she  might 
have  come  here  to — to  see  him." 

He  crossed  abruptly  to  the  fire,  and  stood  staring  into  it  with 
a  greatly  disturbed  face. 

"  Run  away !  "  the  widow  and  the  doctor  both  exclaimed. 

"  Yes — run  away — to  her  death,  most  likely." 

"  Henry  !      Good  Heaven  !" 

"  Women  have  been  driven  to  their  death  before  now  by 
men — girls  have  committed  suicide  for  less  than  she  has  under- 
gone. It  is  not  those  who  make  most  outcry  over  their  troubles 
who  feel  them  deepest.  What  has  she  left  to  live  for — robbed 
of  all  at  one  blow  ?  " 

He  spoke  bitterly — more  bitterly  than  they  dreamed  he  felt. 
Months  ago  he  had  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  darkly  brillic'.nt  heiress 
of  Scarswood,  and  had  been  mad  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  her. 
To  him  she  had  looked  the  fairest,  brightest,  best  of  women, 
and  not  his  own  mother  had  ever  guessed  it.  But  some  of  the 
sharp,  cruel  pain  of  loss  broke  out  of  his  voice  now. 

"  When  I  think  of  her,  and  of  him — the  traitor — the  das- 
tard ! '' — he  looked  angrily  toward  the  sick  room — "  I  feel  as 
though  I  should  like  to  strangle  him.  If  she  is  dead,  then 
Peter  Dangerfield  and  Gaston  Dantree  are  as  surely  murdenjrs 
as  ever  Cain  was." 


196 


**RESURGAMy 


:i 


"Afr.  Henry  Otis,"  exclaimed  Dr.  Graves,  with  csperitjr, 
'*  7vill  you  restrain  this  incoherent  language  and  violent  manner, 
and  tell  us  in  a  composed  and  Christian  way  what  has  hap- 
pened? Miss  Dangerfield  went  home  all  right  after  the  fune- 
ral, with  Miss  Talbot.  Did  she  run  away  herself,  in  the  night, 
or  did  Peter  Dangerfield  turn  her  out  ?" 

•' Scarcely  that  I  think,"  Henry  Otis  returned.  "Even  he 
would  hardly  dare  do  that.  Miss  Talbot  left  her  at  Scarswood, 
and  went  home  with  her  brother.  About  nine  o'clock  she  sud- 
denly made  her  appearance  before  the  landlord  of  the  '  Silver 
Rose,'  where  the  woman  Vavasor  has  been  stopping,  asked  to 
see  her,  and  was  shown  to  her  room.  Mrs.  Vavasor  was  out ; 
she  returned  in  about  half  an  hour,  and  they  were  shut  up  to- 
gether until  half-past  ten.  Then  Miss  Dangerfield  left  the  house 
alone  and  on  foot,  looking  more  like  her  own  ghost,  the  land- 
lord says,  than  herself.  Her  French  maid  Ninon  let  her  in  a 
little  before  midnight — she  gave  the  girl  money,  bade  her  good- 
night and  left  her.  In  the  morning  she  was  gone.  Search  has 
been  made  but  no  trace  of  her  as  yet  has  been  obtained.  My 
own  opinion  is  that  she  has  made  away  with  herself." 

"  And  my  own  opinion  is,  she  has  done  nothing  of  the  sort ! " 
curtly  interposed  Dr.  Graves.  "  Only  arrant  cowards  commit 
suicide,  and  whatever  blood  flows  in  Miss  Dangerfield' s  veins, 
there  is  not  one  drop  of  the  coward  in  it.  She  will  live  and  to 
terrible  purpose,  as  Peter  Dangerfield,  Gaston  Dantree,  and 
that  other  little  villain  Vavasor  will  yet  find.  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfield, wherever  she  is  in  this,  is  not  in  the  other  world — take 
my  word  for  that." 

As  he  took  up  his  gloves  and  hat,  with  the  last  emphatic 
words,  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door.  What  presentiment  was 
it  sent  Henry  Otis  to  answer  it  vvith  such  a  very  unprofessional 
bound.  He  threw  it  open,  and — yes — there  in  the  spectral, 
wintry  dusk  before  him  stood  the  tall,  slender,  somber  tigure — 
its  black  robes,  its  white  face,  and  great  solemn  eyes — there 
stood  Katherine  Dangerfield. 

He  could  not  speak  a  word ;  the  unutterable  relief  of  seeing 
her  alive  and  there,  for  a  moment  almost  unmanned  him.  It 
was  she  who  spoke  first,  in  that  faint,  sweet  voice  that  haunted 
him  forever  after  his  life  long. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  It  is  very  cold,  and  I  want  to  see 
him." 

There  was  something  so  forlorn  in  her  look,  in  her  loneliness, 
in  the  soft,  plaintive  tone — something  so  like  a  spirit  about  her, 


k. 


**RESURGAM.'' 


197 


A. 


. 


t'V. 


tliat  the  words  he  would  have  spoken  died  on  his  lii)s.  She 
stood  before  him  aUvc,  but  surely  death  was  pictured  on  her 
face. 

'*  Come  in,"  he  said  simply;  and  she  glided  j^ast  him,  and  into 
the  presence  of  the  other  two. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !  "  Mrs.  Otis  said,  with  a  motherly  cry  ; 
*'  thank  Heaven,  you  are  alive,  and  have  come  to  us.  Sit 
down  ;  let  me  warm  your  hands — poor,  little,  frozen  hands. 
Oh  !  my  child,  what  a  fright  you  have  given  us  all !  VVheie  in 
the  world  have  you  been?" 

She  sank  wearily  down  in  the  chair,  and  let  her  hands  lie  in 
the  elder  woman's  warm  clasp. 

"  1  have  been  with  Hannah,"  she  answered  slowly  ;  "  at 
Bracken  Hollow,  with  my  muse.  And  to-morrow  I  leave  Cas- 
tleford,  and  I  could  not  go,  you  know,  without  seeing  Gaston, 
poor  fellow.  1  would  have  come  before,  but  I — I  don't  know — 
my  head  feels  all  wrong  somehow,  and  I  think  I  have  been  half 
asleep  all  day.  And  the  walk. was  so  long — so  long,  and  so 
cold — oh  me  !  and  I  was  so  dizzy  and  stupid  all  the  way.  How 
warm  your  fire  is,  and  how  nice  it  is  to  sit  here  !  " 

Her  voice  died  drowsily  away,  her  head  drooped  against  the 
back  of  the  chair,  her  eyelids  fell  heavily.  The  three  about  her 
looked  in  one  another's  startled  faces  in  dead  silence.  What 
did  this  mean  ? 

"My  child — Miss  Dangerfield!"  Mrs.  Otis  murmured. 
"Oh,  look  up;  don't  lie  like  that,  Miss  Katherine  1  Miss 
Katherine  !  " 

"Yes,  papa,"  drowsily;  "but  I  am  so  sleepy,  and  I  don't 
want  to  get  up  to  breakfast  yet.  Has  Gaston  tome  ?  It  is 
cold  for  him  to  ride  from  Castleford  to-night — and  he  hates  the 
cold — poor  Gaston  !  Call  me  when  he  comes,  papa — I  want 
to  sleep  now." 

Her  eyes  closed  heavily  again,  her  mind  was  wandering. 
Her  troubles  had  been  too  much  for  her  then,  after  all,  and  had 
turned  her  brain.  Dr.  Graves  bent  over  her,  and  shook  her 
slightly. 

"  Katherine  !  Katherine  !  "  he  called ;  "  rouse  up — Gaston 
has  come — Gaston  is  here  !  " 

She  sat  up  and  gazed  at  him,  a  bewildered  look  in  her  eyes. 

"Who  calls?"  she  asked.  "Oh,  Dr.  Graves,  is  it  you? 
Where  am  I  ?  Is  papa  sick  again  ?  Why,  this  isn't — "  She 
looked  around,  and  memory  seemed  slowly  struggling  back. 
"  Ves,  I  know  now — this  is  Mr.  Otis'  house — Gaston  is  here." 


I  I 


mHM 


198 


**KESURGAM.'* 


She  rose   up  siulilcnly,  fully  hcrsjlf.     "I  am  going  away,  and  1 
want  to  sec  Gaston,      llow  is  he  to-night,  Mr.  Otis  ?" 

"  IVIuch  as  Ik:  has  been  from  tlie  first,  Miss  Dangerfield — 
little  better,  litllc  worse." 

"  But  he  will  not  die  ?  Mr.  Olis,  you  told  mc  he  would  not 
die!" 

*'  I  think  he  will  not ;  I  have  seen  'vorse  cases  recover.  It 
is  a  sort  of  concussion  of  the  brain.  He  does  not  suffer,  or  at 
least  is  conscious  of  no  suffering." 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that  !  "  she  said  softly.  *' May  I  see 
him  at  once  now — and  alone  ?  1  don't  know  when  I  may  see 
him  again  ;  and,  Mr.  Otis,  you  have  been  so  kind,  will  you  take 
care  of  him  for  me  until  he  is  quite  well  again  ?  I  can't  pay 
you  now — I  am  poor — but  some  day  if  1  live,  I  will." 

"  I  need  no  pay.  For  your  sake,  Miss  Dangcrfield,  I  will 
care  for  him  gladly.  I  would  cherish  a  dog  that  had  been 
yours." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  \\\n\  with  the  old  bright  grace. 

"  Thank  you.  I  knew  I  might  trust  you.  1  must  go  before 
it  gets  too  late.     Please  take  me  to  him  at  once." 

He  led  her  to  the  chamber  door.  White,  cold,  and  motion- 
less, in  the  fast-fading  daylight,  Ciaston  Dantree  lay.  She  had 
not  seen  him  since  that  fatal  wedding  night,  and  now  she  saw 
him  again — thus.  She  stood  an  instant ;  then  she  entered  and 
closed  the  door.  They  heard  the  soft  rustle  of  her  dress  as  she 
knelt  by  the  bedside,  then  silence  fell. 

No  one  spoke.  The  moments  passed ;  the  night  had  en*- 
tirely  shut  down  ;  the  wind  howled  through  the  desolate  church- 
yard, whose  ghostly  gravestones  they  could  see  glancing  in  the 
darkness.  A  hushed  expectation  held  them — of  what  they 
knew  not — a  strange,  prophetic  sort  of  awe.  Mrs.  Otis  was  the 
first  to  move.  The  mantel-clock  struck  six ;  she  turned  softly 
and  lit  the  lamp,  then  stood  waiting  again. 

Five  minutes — ten — no  sign,  no  sound  from  that  inner  room. 
Fifteen — twenty — the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  uneasily. 
Twenty-five — thirty.     Then  Dr.  Graves  spoke. 

"  She  has  been  there  long  enough.  It  is  no  place  for  her  in 
her  present  state.  Mrs.  Otis,  do  you  go  and  tell  her  to  come 
out." 

The  litde  widow,  full  of  foreboding,  tip-toed  to  the  door,  and 
tapped.  No  answer.  A  second  tap,  louder  ;  still  no  reply.  A 
third  rajt — loudly  this  time,  but  the  only  answer  profoundest 
silence. 


• 


-. 


"/!/-SU/!GAAf:* 


199 


idl 

d  — 

not 

It 
at 

see 

see 

take 

pay 


^. 


"Open  the  door,  mother!"  called  the  voice  of  her  son, 
sounding  strange  and  husky — •'  open  at  once  !  " 

Mrs.  Otis  obeyed — ever  so  little  at  first,  and  not  looking  in. 

"Miss  Katherine,"  she  called,  "may  I  enter?" 

Still  no  response.  Then  she  ojjened  the  door  wide,  and  re- 
coiled witli  a  cry. 

"  Henry,  the  child  has  fallen — she  has  fliinted  !  " 

Henry  Otis  was  in  the  room  before  the  words  were  spoken. 
Katherine  was  lying  on  her  face  on  the  floor  by  the  bedside, 
where  she  had  softly  fallen.  In  one  second  she  was  uplifted  in 
Henry  Otis'  arms  and  borne  out  into  the  light.  Her  head  fell 
limp  over  his  arm,  her  eyes  were  closed,  her  features  rigid. 
He  laid  her  u[)on  a  sofa — the  two  doctors  bent  over  her — one 
widi  his  hand  on  her  heart,  the  other  on  her  jjulse.  The  heart 
lay  still,  the  pulse  beat  no  longer.  Rigid,  white,  stark  she  lay, 
already  growing  cold, 

*'  Oil,  Henry,  speak  !  "  his  mother  cried.  "  Doctor  Graves, 
tell  me,  has  she  fainted  ?  " 

The  elder  doctor  removed  his  hand  from  her  heart,  and  stood 
up  very  pale  himself  in  the  lamplight. 

"Not  fainted,  madani)"  he  said  quietly  ;  *^dead/" 


Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  sat  alone  in  the  library  of  Scarswood  ; 
the  silken  curtains  were  drawn  ;  firelight  and  lamplight  made 
the  room  brilliant ;  his  purple  easy  chair  was  drawn  up  before 
a  writing-table  littered  with  deeds  and  documents,  and  Sir 
Peter,  in  gold-bowed  spectacles,  was  trying  to  r'^ad. 

Trying — not  reading.  Forever  between  him  and  the  parch- 
ment page,  a  face  menacing  and  terrible  kept  coining,  the  face 
of  Katherine,  as  he  had  seen  her  last. 

Where  was  Katherine  ?  Dead  or  alive,  she  had  sworn  to  be 
revenged.  Was  she  dead  ?  He  shuddered  through  all  his  little 
craven  soul  and  heart  at  the  thought.  Men  had  looked  at  him 
darkly  and  askance  all  day,  and  turned  coldly  away  from  him 
while  he  spoke.  There  had  been  whispers  of  suicide.  What 
if  while  he  sat  here  in  this  warm,  lighted,  luxurious  room,  she 
lay  stark  and  frozen  under  the  stars — dead  by  her  own  hand  ! 

There  was  a  tall,  smoke-colored  bottle  on  another  table,  with 
glasses.  He  was  usually  a  very  anchorite  for  abstemiousness, 
but  he  sprang  up  now,  with  a  muttered  oath,  filled  himself  a 
stiff  glass  of  brandy,  and  drained  it  at  a  draught. 

"  1  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  given  her  that  infernal  three  thou- 
sand, and  be  hanged  to  it  I "  he  muttered,  flinging  himself  back 


200 


**RLSURGAMr 


sulkily  in  his  chair.  "  Curse  the  luck  !  What's  the  use  of  a 
title  and  a  fortune  if  a  fellow's  life  is  to  be  badgered  out  of  him 
in  this  way?  There's  that  greedy  little  devil,  Mrs.  Vavasor, 
nt.  t  a  penny  would  she  throw  off.  And  now  there's  Katherine. 
I  wish  I  hadn't  said  what  1  did  to  her.  If  they  ever  find — J 
mean  when  they  find  her — I'll  give  her  that  three  thousand,  if 
she  takes  it,  and  liave  done  with  the  whole  confounded  thing. 
J^ut  she's  so  confoundedly  proud  that  likely  as  not  she'll  lurn 
cantankerous  and  refuse.  There's  no  pleasing  a  woman  any- 
way ;  refuse  it  and  you  insult  her,  offer  it  and  you  insult  her 
more.     Oh,  come  in,  whoever  you  are,  and  be  hanged  to  you  !  " 

This  pleasant  concluding  adjuration  was  in  response  to  a  rap 
at  the  door.  A  tall,  serious  footman  in  purple  plush  breeches 
and  white  stockings  appeared. 

"  Dr.,  Graves,  Sir  Peter,"  spake  this  majestic  menial,  and 
vanished. 

Sir  Peter  arose,  as  Dr.  Graves,  hat  in  hand,  very  pale  and 
solemn  of  visage,  stood  before  him.  News  of  Katherine  at  last. 
He  grasped  the  back  of  his  chair  with  one  hand  and  faced  his 
visitor  almost  defiantly,  as  one  who  should  say  "whatever  has 
happened  /at  least  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

''-  Well,  sir  ?  "  he  demanded, 

'*  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  I  bring  news  of— of  Katherine. 
She  is  found." 

The  little  baronet's  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  Found  !  then 
she  had  not  committed  suicide. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said  with  a  look  of  sulky  injury,  "  I  knew  as  much. 
I  thought  she  wasn't  the  sort  of  girl  to  take  arsenic  or  throw 
herself  into  the  nearest  mill-stream.  So  she's  found,  is  she? 
h  nd  where  has  she  been,  pray,  since  she  ran  away  from  Scars- 
wood  ?  " 

He  resumed  his  chair,  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  up  at  his 
visitor.  But  still  Dr.  Graves  kept  that  face  of  supernatural 
solemnity. 

"  When  she  ran  away  from  Scarswood,  Sir  Peter,  she  went 
to  her  old  nurse  at  Bracke"  Hollow.  About  three  hours  ago, 
while  I  was  at  Otis'  cotcage,  seeing  that  unlucky  chap  Dantree, 
she  came." 

"She  di' !  To  see  Dantree,  too,  I  suppose.  Extremely 
forgiving  of  her,  I  must  say,  but  not  in  the  least  like  Katherine 
Dangerfield.  Perhaps  she  is  going  to  turn  romantic  sick-nurse 
to  her  wounded  cavalier,  and  end  by  getting  him  to  marry — " 

•'  Stop,  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  ! "  the  old  doctor  said  hoarsely  \ 


"resurgam:* 


201 


"  not  another  word,  Katherine  Dangerfield  will  never  marry 
Gaston  Dantree  or  any  other  mortal  man.     She  is  dead  ! " 

"  Dead  !  "  Sir  Peter  leaped  from  his  ch^ir  as  though  he  had 
been  speared.  "  Dead,  Graves  !  Good  God  !  I  thought  you 
said — I  thought — " 

His  white  lips  refused  to  finish  the  sentence ;  he  stood  star- 
ing with  horror-struck  eyes  at  the  elder  man. 

"Yes,  Sir  Peter — dead  !  Of  heart-disease,  no  doubt,  latent 
and  unsusj^ected.  Thi-^  is  how  it  happened  :  She  came  to  see 
Dantree  before  leavmg  Castleford — those  were  her  words. 
She  looked  siiockingly  ill  and  haggard,  and  her  mind  seemed  to 
wander  a  little.  Che  fell  into  a  sort  of  stupor  as  she  sat  before 
the  fire  and  complained  of  her  head.  We  aroused  her  after  a 
little  time,  and  she  went  into  the  sick  room.  She  shut  the 
door,  and  we  heard  her  kneel  down.  Then  there  was  a  long 
silence,  so  long,  so  profound,  that  we  grew  alarmed.  Mrs. 
Otis  knocked  again  and  again  at  the  door,  and  received  no 
answer.  Th-^n  we  opened  it  and  went  in.  She  had  fallen  on 
her  face  and  was  stone  dead  !  " 

"  Great  Heaven  ! " 

"  She  must  have  been  dead  some  minutes — ten  or  more,  for 
she  was  already  'growing  cold.  1  left  her  there  when  I  found 
life  utterly  extinct,  and  nothing  more  possible  to  be  done,  and 
came  here.  It  is  shocking,  Sir  Peter — it  is  horrible  !  And 
only  yesterday,  as  it  were,  this  house  was  all  alight  for  the  wed- 
dirig." 

And  then  th"^  old  doctor's  voice  broke,  an  1  he  turned  his 
back  abruptly  on  Sir  Peter  and  faced  the  fire. 

Dead  silence  fell.  The  clock  ticked,  the  cinders  dropped. 
Dr.  Graves  looked  fixedly  into  the  ruddy  coals,  and  Sir  Petei 
sat  stifif  and  upright  in  his  chair,  quite  ghastly  to  look  at. 

"Dead  or  alive,  Iwill  be  revenged  !"  The  horrible  words 
rang  in  his  ear  like  his  own  death-knell.  They  meant  nothing, 
perhaps ;  they  were  but  the  passionate,  impotent  rage  of  an 
outraged  woman,  who  knew  his  cowardly  nature  to  the  full,  but 
they  did  their  work.  Katherine  was  dead  !  and  Katherine  was 
vindictive  enough  to  carry  her  hatred  and  revenge  into  that 
world  of  shadows  whither  she  had  gone,  and  come  back  from 
the  grave  to  pursue  him.  Greater  and  wiser  than  poor  little  Sir 
Peter  Dangerfield  have  devoutly  believed  in  ghosts ;  he  was 
superstitious  to  the  core.  And  katherine  was  dead — dead — 
dead !  Great,  heavy  drops  stood  on  his  pinched,  pallid  face, 
and  his  voice  was  husky  as  he  spoke  : 


202 


••  resurgam:* 


"  Dr.  Graves,  there  must  be  some  mistake  here — there  must. 
She  coukln't  die  in  that  way — it  is  too  horrible — and  she  was 
so  yoiuig — and  so  strong — never  sick  a  day  in  her  hfe,  by 
George  !  Oh,  it  is  impossible,  you  know — entirely  impossible. 
It's  a  fit  or  a  faint,  if  you  like — not  death.  Let  us  go  back  and 
see  what  can  be  done  for  her — I'll  go  with  you.  Let  us  be  off 
at  once.  I  tell  you  she  can't  be  dead.  I  don't  want  her  to  die. 
It's  a  prolonged  fainting  fit,  doctor — take  my  word  for  it — noth- 
ing more.  Strong,  healthy  girls  like  Katherine  don't  drop  off 
in  a  minute  like  that." 

"  Sir  Peter,"  the  old  physician  said  quietly,  "  I  am  sixty-five 
years  of  age,  and  for  the  past  forty  yeLi'^s  I  have  seen  death  in 
all  its  phases — lingering  and  instantaneous.  And  I  tell  you  she 
is  ^ead.  But  we  will  go  to  her  as  you  say — you  can  convince 
yourself  with  your  own  eyes." 

But  still  Sir  Peter  would  not  be  convinced  ;  would  not — 
could  not  "make  her  dead."  He  hurried  from  the  room, 
changed  his  dress,  ordered  round  ins  horse,  and  in  fifteen  min- 
utes the  two  men  were  galloping  iA\  speed  through  the  keen 
frosty  night  into  Castleford. 

The  town  lay  hushed  and  dark — it  was  close  njion  eleven 
now.  Neither  spoke  a  word  ;  the  breathless  pace  did  not  admit 
of  talk.  They  reached  the  Otis  cottage,  its  whole  front  lit,  and 
figures  tlitted  rapidly  to  and  fro.  And  Peter  Dangerficld's  heart 
under  his  riding-coat  was  throbbing  so  rapidly,  he  turned  sick 
and  reeled  dizzily  for  an  instant  rs  he  sprang  from  the  saddle. 
The  next  he  rallied  and  followed  his  leader  in. 

On  the  sofa,  in  the  little  sitting-room,  where  they  had  first 
placed  her,  Katherine  still  lay.  They  had  removed  her  hat  and 
cloak,  and  loo-sened  all  her  clothes,  but  over  that  rigid  face  the 
solemn  seal  of  eternal  sleep  had  fallen.  They  had  closed  her 
eyes  and  folded  '.ue  pulseless  hands,  and  calmly,  as  though 
sleeping,  and  fairer  than  ever  in  life,  she  lay.  'i'he  haggard 
look  had  all  gone  and  a  great  calm  lay  upon  it. 

So  Peter  Dangerfield  saw  her  again. 

There  v/ere  three  persons  in  the  room.  Beside  Mr.  Otis  and 
his  mother,  the  old  ex-Indian  nurse  from  Bracken  Hollow,  sad, 
gaunt  and  gray,  sat  close  by  her  nurseling,  swaying  ceaselessly 
to  and  fro,  and  uttering  a  sort  of  'vioaning  cry,  like  a  dumb 
creature  in  pain.  She  lifted  her  inflamed  eyes  and  fixed  them 
with  savage  hatred  ui:)on  the  pallid  face  of  the  baronet. 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  bitterly  ;  "  you're  a  fine  gentleman  now,  little 
Peter  Dangerfield,  and  you  do  well  to  come  and  look  at  youi 


l> 


X 


m 


K 


/<f 


*' RES  ORG  AM." 


hough 


youi 


20.^ 


handiwork ;  for  you're  her  inurderer,  you  and  that  Vi"g>  ^^.Ise 
faced  villain  lying  yonder,  as  sure  as  ever  men  were  murderers. 
The  law  won't  hang  you,  I  suppose,  but  it  has  hung  men  who 
deserved  it  less.  I  wonder  you  aren't  afraid  as  you  look  at 
her — afraid  she  will  rise  up  from  her  death-bed  and  accuse 
you." 

He  turned  his  tortured  face  toward  her,  quite  horrible  to  see 
in  its  fear  and  ghastliness. 

"  For  Heavens  sake,  hush  ! "  he  said.  "  I  never  meant  this  1 
I  never  thought  she  would  die  !  I  would  give  all  I  am  worth 
to  bring  her  back  to  life.  I  couldn't  help  it — I  wouldn't  have 
had  it  happen  for  worlds.    Dcn't  drive  me  mad  with  your  talk  ! " 

"  Liar  ! "  old  Hannah  cried,  towering  up  and  confronting  him  ; 
"  double  liar  and  coward  !  Who  refused  her  her  dying  father's 
bequest? — who  offered  her  the  deadliest  and  most  dastardly 
insult  it  is  possible  to  offer  woman  ?  And  you  say  yoi'  are 
sorry,  and  ask  me  not  to  drive  you  mad  !  I  tell  you,  if  the 
whole  town  rose  up  and  stoned  you,  it  would  not  be  half  your 
deserts.  I  say  again,  I  wonder  that,  dead  as  she  lies  there  be- 
fore you,  she  does  not  rise  to  accuse  her  murderer.  Mr.  Henry 
Otis,  this  is  your  house,- ai-d  she  thought  you  her  friend.  Show 
yourself  her  friend  now,  and  turn  her  murderer  out ! " 

"  Hannah,  Hannah,  hush!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Otis,  scandal- 
ized and  alarmed.  Whatever  Sir  Peter  might  be,  it  was  not  in 
this  good  woman's  nature  to  do  other  than  reverence  the  Lord 
of  Scarswood,  the  man  of  eight  thousand  a  year. 

But  her  son  stepped  forward — pale,  cold,  stern. 

"Hannah's  right,  mother,"  he  said,  "and  he  shall  go.  Sir 
Peter  Dangerfield,  this  house  is  no  place  for  you.  You  have 
come  here  and  convinced  yourself  she  is  dead — driven  to  all  by 
you  and  that  man  yonder.  He  is  beyond  the  pale  of  justice — 
you  are  not ;  and,  by  Heaven  !  you  shall  go  ! "  He  threw  wide 
the  house  door,  his  dark  eyes  flashing,  and  pointed  out  into  the 
darkness.  "  Go,  Sir  Peter,  and  never  set  foot  across  threshold 
of  mine  again.  She  turned  to  me  In  her  trouble,  she  came  to 
rie  in  her  dark  hour,  and  she  is  mine  now — mine.  Go  ! — you 
coward,  you  robber  and  insulter  of  helpless  girlhood,  and  come 
here  no  more  !  " 

The  fiery  words  scourged  him,  averted  faces  met  him  on 
every  side.  And,  calm  and  white,  Katherine  lay  before  him, 
with  closed  eyes  and  folded  hands  ;  most  awful  of  all !  With- 
out a  word  he  slunk  away  like  a  whipped  hound,  the  door  closed 
upon  him,  and  he  stood  alone  under  tae  black  winter  night. 


204 


**resurgam:' 


i  < 


Alone !  Would  he  ever  be  alone  again  ?  Sleeping  and 
waking,  would  not  that  terrible,  while,  fixed  face  ]5ursue  him. 
"  Dead,  I  will  come  back  from  the  grave  if  rhe  dead  can  ! " 
Would  the  words  she  had  spoken,  the  dreadful  words  he  had 
laughed  at  once,  ever  cease  to  ring  in  liis  ears  now  ?  Would 
they  not  hunt  him  until  they  drove  him  mad  ?  i 

Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  rode  home. 

Home  !  What  was  Scarswood  better  than  a  haunted  house 
now  ?  He  shut  himself  up  in  his  library,  lighted  the  room  to 
more  than  the  brilliance  of  day,  locked  the  door,  seized  the 
brandy  bottle  and  deliberately  drank  Jiimself  into  a  state  of 
beastly  stupor.  When  morning  dawned.  Sir  Peter,  lying  on 
the  hearthrug,  was  far  beyond  all  fear  of  ghosts  or  goblins  in 
heavy,  bestial  sleep. 

And  Katherine  Dangerfield  was  dead.  The  papers  recorded 
it,  the  town  rang  with  it — the  whole  neighborhood  was  utterly 
shocked.  That  little  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  Castleford 
awoke  and  found  itself  famous.  Crowds  flocked  hither  all  day 
on  foot  and  in  carriages,  poor  and  rich,  to  look  on  that  placid, 
dead  face.  And  so  the  tragedy  of  Scarswood  had  ended  thus. 
Sir  John  Dangerfield  lay  in  his  tomb,  Gaston  Dantree,  the  bril- 
liant adventurer,  lay  in  his  darkened  room  hovering  between 
life  and  death,  and  Katherine,  so  bright,  so  dashing,  so  full  of 
life  and  hope,  and  love  and  happiness  only  a  few  brief  weeks 
ago,  lay  here — like  this.  "  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death." 
Everybody  shook  their  heads  and  quoted  that ;  the  funeral  ser- 
mon was  preached  from  it.  All  who  had  ever  known  her  bowed 
down  now  in  reverence  before  the  solemn  wonder  of  the  wind- 
ing sheet. 

People  came  forward — two  or  three  of  the  county  families, 
the  Talbots  at  their  head — and  offered  to  take  the  body  and 
have  the  obsequies  of  apj^ropriate  grandeur.  But  Henry  Otis 
set  those  resolute  lips  of  his,  and  doggedly  refused. 

"  It  was  to  me  she  came  in  her  trouble,"  he  answered,  "  not 
to  you.  No  man  alive  has  a  better  right,  or  a  stronger  claim 
now  than  I.  And  I'll  never  give  her  up.  She  refused  all  ^our 
aid  alive,  she  shall  not  seek  it  dead.  From  my  house  she  goes 
to  yonder  churchyard — 1  will  give  her  up  to  none  of  you." 

Edith  Talbot  never  left  the  house.  She  sat  by  her  dead 
friend,  weeping  incessantly.  Feeling  aga'nst  the  new  baronet 
ran  very  high  and  bitterly.  No  one  but  old  Hannah  knew  of 
the  terrible  insult  of  that  other  night,  but  everybody  suspected 
foul  play.     He  made  no  appearance  among  them,  but  shut 


m 

I 


*'  resurgam:^ 


205 


and 
him. 


i 


himself  up  in  his  gloomy  mansion  and  drowned  thought  in 
drink. 

The  funeral  took  place  two  days  after,  and  they  laid  her  in 
a  remote  corner  of  that  little  obscure  churchyard,  among  the 
lowly  of  Castleford.  A  fir-tree  reared  its  gloomy  branches 
above  the  grave — a  gray  cross  marked  the  spot.  They  laid  her 
there  in  the  twilight  of  a  wintry  afternoon,  with  bowed  heads 
and  sad,  solemn  faces,  and  the  story  of  Katherine  Dangerfield 
was  told  and  done.  One  by  one  they  dropped  away  to  their 
homes,  Edith  Talbot  among  the  last,  still  crying  behind  her  vail, 
and  led  away  by  her  brother. 

And  then  Henry  Otis  stood  alone  over  the  grave  of  the 
woman  he  loved  and  had  lost.  He  stood  with  folded  arms 
while  the  short,  dark  gloaming  ran  on,  his  hat  lying  beside  him, 
the  keen  wind  lifting  his  hair  unheeded.  He  had  loved  her  as 
he  never  would  love  any  other  woman,  and  this  was  the  end. 

Katherine, 

Resurgam. 

That  was  all ;  no  second  name.  Who  knew  what  that  name 
might  be,  or  if  she  really  had  a  claim  to  any  name  whatever  ? 
And  so,  while  he  stood  there,  the  twilight  fell,  and  it  was  his 
mother's  voice,  calling  plaintively,  that  aroused  him  at  last. 

"  Henry  I  Henry  !  come  home,  dear  !  You  will  get  your 
death  standing  there  bareheaded  in  the  cold  ! " 

An  hour  later,  when  the  slender  crescent  moon  lifted  her 
sickle  over  the  blue  sea-line,  another  pilgrim  came  to  that  new- 
made  grave,  fearfully,  and  by  stealth. 

Peter  Dangerfield  had  not  dared  come  to  the  funeral,  but  he 
came  now  to  the  grave.  He  was  horribly  afraid  still,  but  all 
the  same,  he  could  not  stay  away.  It  was  like  a  hideous  dream 
to  him.  Katherine  dead  ! — that  bright,  dashing  young  Amazon, 
whose  laugh  had  rang  so  clear,  whose  eyes  had  flashed  so  bright ! 
Katherine  dead  !     And  they  call  him  her  murderer  ! 

He  made  his  way  along  the  little  pathway,  worn  by  humble 
feet,  to  the  spot  where  they  had  laid  her.  The  faint  new  moon 
flickered  on  the  granite  cross.  He  knelt  on  one  knee,  and 
read  the  inscription  : 

Katherine,  > 

yExAT  17. 

Resurgam. 

What  a  brief  record  it  was  !     And,  Resurgam— \\\\2X  did  that 


206 


**RESURGAM.** 


i 


word  mean,  he  wondered,  stupidly.  Then  it  dawned  upon  him 
"Resurgam"  meant  '•^ I  shall  rise  againr  "I  shall  rise 
AGAIN  ! " 

From  lier  very  grave  the  dead  girl  spoke  and  threatened  him. 

How  long  he  lingered  there  he  never  knew.  He  felt  half 
stupefied,  partly  with  the  liquor  he  had  been  drinking,  partly 
with  abject  fear,  partly  with  cold.  He  was  all  cramped  and 
stiff  when  at  last  he  arose  to  go.  His  horse  stood  outside  the 
little  gate.  He  mounted  him,  let  the  reins  fall  upon  his  neck, 
while  his  head  sank  upon  his  breast.  How  the  animal  made 
his  way  home — how  he  got  into  the  house,  into  his  own  room, 
into  bed,  he  could  never  have  told.  All  that  shone  out  vividly 
from  that  night  in  his  after  life  was  the  dream  that  followed. 

He  was  wandering  through  a  dark  and  unknown  country — 
bleak  and  forsaken.  He  could  see  the  stars  in  the  sky,  the  new 
moon,  a  solitary  fir-tree,  and  gravestones  everywhere.  It  was 
one  perpetual  graveyard,  and  a  spectral  figure,  with  long,  float- 
ing brown  hair,  and  waving  white  arms,  beckoned  him  on  and 
on.  He  could  not  see  the  face,  but  he  knew  it  was  Katherine. 
He  was  tired,  and  sick,  and  cold,  and  footsore.  Their  dismal 
road  ended  at  last  in  a  ghastly  precipice,  where,  looking  down 
sheer  thousands  of  feet  below,  he  saw  a  seething  hell  of  waters. 
Then  his  shadowy  guide  turned,  and  he  saw  Katherine  Danger- 
field's  dead  face.  The  stiff  lips  parted,  and  the  sweet,  strong 
voice  spoke  as  of  old  : 

"  Living,  I  will  pursue  you  to  the  very  ends  of  the  earth. 
Dead,  I  will  come  back  from  the  grave,  if  the  dead  can  ! " 

The  words  she  had  spoken  in  her  passionate  outburst  she 
spoke  again.  Then  her  arms  encircled  him,  then  he  was  lifted 
up,  then  with  a  shriek  of  terror  he  was  hurled  over  that  dizzy 
cliff — and  awoke  fitting  up  in  bed,  trembling  in  every  limb. 

Only  a  dream !  And  was  this  night  but  the  beginning  of 
the  end  1 


1 


T 


PART    II. 


CHAPTER  I. 


LA   REINE    BLANCHE. 


HE  place  was  Her  Majesty's  Theater — the  opera  the 
"  Figlia  del  Regimento," — the  hour  af-.er  the  first  act 
— the  time,  the  last  week  of  the  Londc.n  season — and 
the  scene  was  brilliant  beyond  all  description.  "  All 
the  world"  was  there,  and  the  prima  donna  was  that  svveetest 
of  singers,  that  loveliest  of  women,  that  most  charming  of 
actresses,  Mademoiselle 'Nillsson. 

Her  Majesty's  was  full — one  dazzling  blaze  of  light  from 
dome  to  parquet,  tier  upon  tier  of  .nagnificently  dressed 
women,  a  blaze  of  diamonds,  a  glow  of  rainbow  bouquets,  a 
flutter  of  fans,  a  sparkle  of  bright  eyes,  a  vision  of  fair  faces, 
and  lights  and  warmth,  and  Donizetti's  matchless  music  sweep- 
ing and  surging  over  all. 

The  house  had  just  settled  back  into  its  seats,  for  a  few 
moments  the  whole  audience  had  risen,  en  masse,  at  the  en- 
trance of  royalty.  In  the  royal  box  now  sat  the  Prince  and 
Princess  of  Wales,  Prince  Arthur,  and  the  Princess  Louise. 

The  bell  had  tinkled  for  the  rising  of  the  curtain  upon  the 
second  act  of  the  opera  when  a  fashionably  late  party  of  three 
entered  one  of  the  proscenium  boxes,  and  a  thousand  eyes  and 
as  many  "double  barrels"  turned  instantly  in  that,  direction. 
You  saw  at  once  that  these  late  arrivals  were  people  of  note, 
and  looking  with  them  you  would  merely  glance  at  two  of  the 
party,  and  then  your  eyes  would  have  fixed,  as  countless  eyes 
there  did,  upon  the  third  face — a  wondrously  fair  face.  The 
party  were  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  his  only  daughter,  the  I.ady 
Cecil  Clive,  and  his  niece  Ginevra,  Lady  Dangerfield.  And 
the  Earlof  Paiysland's  only  daughter  had  been  the  most  brilliant 
belle  of  this  London  season,  as  she  had  been  of  the  'wo  pre- 


<aMiaiteb4tfiA«IUU«tfi(UUl 


208 


LA   REINE  BLANCHE. 


:i  •.. 


:k      ':. 


i 


B 


ceding,  and  not  in  all  that  dazzling  house,  not  in  the  royal  box 
itself,  looked  forth  a  fairer,  sweeter  face  than  that  v/hich  looked 
with  perfect  self-possession  over  the  audience  now. 

She  had  advanced  to  the  liont  at  once  with  high  bred  com 
posure,  drawn  back  the  curtain  with  one  slim,  gloved  hand,  ana 
leaned  ever  so  slightly  forward,  with  a  half  smile  upon  her  face. 
In  that  musical  interlude,  before  the  rising  of  the  curtain  for 
the  second  time,  countless  bows  and  smiles  greeted  her,  which- 
ever way  she  turned.  All  the  lorgnettes  in  the  house  seemed 
for  an  instant  aimed  at  that  one  fair  face  and  queenly  head, 
upheld  with  stag-like  grace  ;  but  to  my  Lady  Cecil  that  was  a 
very  old  story,  and,  with  all  her  woman's  love  of  adoration,  some- 
thing of  a  weary  one.  She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  after  that 
first  sweep  of  the  house,  threw  back  her  opera  cloak,  all  silk, 
swan's-down,  ant'  snow  cashmere,  as  seemingly  indifferent  to  all 
those  eyes  as  though  she  sat  in  the  theater  alone. 

A  belle  of  Belgravia — yes.  Lady  Cecil  was  that.  It  was  a 
marvelously  brilliant  face  on  which  the  lamplight  shone,  with 
its  complexion  of  pearl,  its  soft,  large,  lustrous,  brown,  gazelle 
eyes,  its  trailing  hazel  hair,  bound  back  with  pearls  and  roses, 
the  haughty  carriage  of  the  dainty  head,  the  pure  Greek  type 
of  feature,  the  swaying  grace  of  the  tall,  sliglit  form.  A  rarely 
perfect  face,  and  as  sweet  as  perfect,  with  its  dreamy  tender 
eyes,  its  gravely  gentle  smile.  You  would  hardly  have 
dreamed,  looking  at  its  delusive  innocence,  how  much  mis- 
chief my  Lady  Cecil  had  done  in  her  day,  how  much,  the  gods 
willing,  she  yet  meant  to  do.  Those  brown,  serene  eyes,  had 
"  slain  their  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,"  that  delusively 
gentle  smile  had  driven  men  blind  and  mad  with  the  insanity 
called  love.  A  pearl-faced,  hazel-eyed  Circe  who  led  her  vic- 
tims down  a  flower-strewn  path  with  words  and  smiles  of  honey, 
only  to  leave  them  stranded  high  and  dry  on  the  desolate  quick- 
sand of  disappointment,  where  the  bones  of  her  victims 
bleached.  A  flirt  by  nature — a  coquette  ripe  for  mischief,  a 
beauty  without  mercy  and  without  heart — that  was  her  charac- 
ter, as  half  the  men  in  London  would  have  told  you. 

And  yet — and  yet — how  lovely  she  looked  to-night  !  how 
radiant !  how  spotless  !  Dressed  for  some  after  ball,  the  loose- 
falling  opera  cloak  showed  you  a  robe  of  rose  silk,  decoUe/c,  of 
course  ;  soft  touches  of  rich  point-lace,  a  cluster  of  rich  moss 
'"'.  jes  in  the  corsage,  and  lace  draperies  falling  open  from  the 
large  pearly  arm.  Looking  at  her  as  she  sat  there,  you  were 
half-inclined,  knowing  all  the  enormities,  to  forgive  the  deeds 


I 


1 


ZA  REINE  BLANCHE 


209 


of  darkness  wrought  J)y  so  peerless  a  siren.  Fair  and  fatal ; 
and  when  in  repose,  even  with  a  touch  of  sadness,  there  was 
something  in  it  that  made  you  paraphrase  'he  words  of  the 
southern  sculptor,  speaking  of  Charles  Stuart,  "  Something  evil 
will  befall  her,  she  carries  nnsfortune  on  her  face." 

Her  companion  was  a  very  excellent  foil  to  the  fiiir,  pale, 
pensive  beauty  of  the  earl's  daughter.  Lady  Dangerfield  was 
a  brunette  of  the  mo.st  pronounced  type,  petite,  four-and-thirty 
years  old,  and  by  lamplight,  in  diamonds  and  amber  silk,  still 
young,  and  still  pretty.  Her  black  hair  built  up  in  braids,  and 
l)uffs,  and  curls,  by  the  most  unajiproachable  of  Parisian  hair- 
dressers, was  a  marvel  of  art  in  itself  There  was  a  flush  on 
either  sallow  cheek — art,  or  nature  ?  who  shall  say  ? — and  it 
the  purple  tinting  under  the  eyelids  made  those  black  orbs  any 
longer,  bigger,  brighter,  than  when  they  came  first  from  the 
hand  of  a  beneficent  Providence,  whose  business  was  it  but  the 
lady's  own  ? 

For  the  Earl  of  Ruysland — tall,  thin,  refined,  patrician,  and 
fastidious — he  was  fifty  odd,  with  a  venerable  bald  head,  shin- 
ing like  a  billiard  ball,  and  two  tired,  gray  eyes.  He  had  been 
a  handsome  man  in  his  day,  a  spendthrift,  a  gambler,  a  dandy, 
a  member  of  the  famous  Beefsteak  Club,  in  his  youth.  He 
had  run  thirnigh  two  fortune.?,  and  now  stood  confessed  the 
poorest  peer  in  Britain. 

Two  young  men  in  the  stalls  had  been  among  the  first  to  take 
aim  at  the  new-comers,  at  Lady  Cecil,  rather,  and  the  longest 
to  stare. 

"Zrt!  Reine  Blanche  is  looking  her  best  to-night.  Few 
reigning  beauties  stand  the  wear  and  tear  of  three  seasons  as 
the  White  Queen  does." 

"  La  Reine  Blanche  !  "  his  companion  repeated.  "  I  always 
meant  to  ask  you,  Delamer,  why  they  called  her  that.  A  pretty 
idea,  too.     Why  ?  " 

"  From  some  real  or  fancied  resemblance  to  that  other  Za 
Reine  Blanche,  Marie  Stuart — dazzling  and  doomed." 

Starer  No.  Two  put  up  his  lorgnette  and  took  another  survey. 

"  Not  fancied,  Delamer — there  is  a  resemblance — quite 
striking.  The  same  oval  face,  the  same  Greek  type,  the  same 
expression,  half-tender,  half-melancholy,  half-disdainful.  If 
Mary  the  Queen  had  a  tithe  of  that  beauty,  I  can  understand 
now  how  even  the  hard-headed  Scottish  commoners  were 
roused  to  enthusiasm  as  she  rode  through  their  midst,  and  cried 
out  as  one  man,  *  God  bless  that  sweet  face  ! '  " 


i     tf 


210 


lA  REINE  BLANCHE, 


%\ 


% 


"That  will  do,  Wyatt.  Don't  you  get  roused  to  entliusitism  j 
and  don't  look  too  long  at  Ruysland's  peerless  daughter  ;  slie 
is  like  those — what's  tlieir  names — sirens,  you  know,  who  lured 
poor  devils  to  death  and  doom.  She's  a  thorough-paced  flirt  ; 
her  coquetries  have  been  as  numberless  as  the  stars,  and  >iot 
half  so  eternal.  She's  the  highest-priced  Circassian  in  Maytair, 
and  you  might  as  well  love  some  bright  i)articular  star,  etc.  ; 
and  besides,  it  is  au  coiirant  at  the  clubs  that  she  was  bidden 
in  and  bought  ages  ago  by  some  tremendously  wealthy  Cornish 
baronet,  wandering  at  present  in  foreign  parts.  He's  a  sensible 
fellow,  gives  Queenie — they  call  her  Queenie — no  end  of  mar- 
gin for  flirting,  until  it  suits  his  sultanship  to  return,  pay  the 
price,  and  clami  his  property.  Look  at  Nillsson  instead.  She's 
married,  and  a  marchioness  ;  but  it's  not  half  so  dangerous, 
believe  me,  as  gazing  at  La  Rc'me  Blanched 

"I'm  not  looking  at  your  La  Reine  Blanche"  Wyatt  an- 
swered ;  *'  I'm  looking  at  that  man  yonder — you  see  him  ? — 
very  tall,  very  tanned,  very  military..  If  Redmond  O'Donnell 
be  in  the  land  of  the  living,  that  is  he." 

Delamer  whirled  around,  as  nearly  excited  as  the  principles 
of  his  life  would  allow  a  dandy  of  the  Foreign  Office  to  be. 

"  What !  Redmond  O'Donnell  ?  the  man  we  met  two  years 
ago  in  Algiers — Le  Beau  Chasseur,  as  they  used  to  call  him, 
and  the  best  of  good  fellows.  By  George  1  you're  right,  Wyatt, 
it  is  O'Donnell  !     Let  us  join  him  at  once." 

A  few  moments  later,  and  the  two  embryo  diplomats  from 
the  F.  O.  had  made  their  way  to  the  side  of  a  tall,  soldierly, 
sunburned  man  who  sat  quite  alone  tliree  tiers  behind. 

"  What?  You,  O'Donnell !  I  give  you  my  word  I'd  as  soon 
have  expected  to  see  Pio  Nono  sitting  out  the  opera  as  Le 
Beau  Chasseur.  Glad  to  see  you  in  England,  dear  old  boy, 
all  the  same.     When  did  you  come  ?  " 

The  man  addressed  looked  up — his  dark,  grave  face  lighting 
into  sudden  brightness  and  warmth  as  he  smiled.  It  was  a 
handsome  face,  a  thoroughly  Celtic  face,  despite  the  golden 
tan  of  an  African  sun,  with  blue  eyes,  to  which 


long. 


black 


lashes  lent  softness  and  depth,  profuse  dark  brown  hair,  and 
most  desirable  curling  nmstache.  It  was  a  gallant  figure, 
straight,  tall,  and  strong  as  a  Norway  pine,  and  with  the  true 
trooper  swing. 

"  Delamer — Wyatt — this  is  a  surprise  I  "  He  shook  hands 
cordially  with  the  two  men,  with  a  smile  and  glance  pleasant 
to  see.     "  When  did  I  come  ?    Only  reached  Londoa  at  noon 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE, 


211 


\\x\ 


to-day,  after  a  smooth  run  from  New  Orlcc.ns  of  twenty-two 
days." 

**  New  Orleans  !  And  what  the  deuce  took  Captain  O'Don- 
nell,  of  the  Third  Chasseurs  d'Afritiue,  to  New  Oilcans  ?  " 

"A  family  matter — I'll  tell  you  later.  As  we  only  remain  a 
day  or  two  in  London,  I  thought  I  would  drop  in  to  her 
Majesty's  and  hear  Nillsson  for  the  fust  time." 

"  We  I  O'Donnell,  don't  tell  me  there's  a  lady  in  the'case — 
that  the  madness  of  matrimony  has  seized  you — that  you  have 
taken  to  yourself  a  wife  of  the  daughters  of  the  land.  You 
Irishmen  are  all  alike,  fighting  and  love-making — love-making 
and  fighting.  Ah  !  "  Mr.  Delamer  shook  his  head  and  sighed 
faintly  ;  *'  she  isn't  an  Arab,  I  hope — ia  she  ?  " 

O'Donnell  laughed. 

"There's  a  lady  in  the  case,  but  not  a  wife.  Don't  you 
know  1  have  a  sister,  Delamer?  Have  no  fears  for  me — my 
weaknesses  are  many  and  great — for  fighting,  if  you  like,  but 
iiOt  for  love-making.  A  briUiant  scene  this,  and  faces  fair  enough 
to  tempt  even  so  austere  an  anchorite  as  Gordon  Delamer." 

*'  yair  faces  surely,"  Wyatt  said,  *'  What  do  you,  fresh  from 
the  desert,  think  of  La  Relne  Blanche — that  brown-haired  god- 
dess, whose  earthly  name  is  Cecil  Clive  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  " 

Suddenly  and  sharply  the  captain  of  Chasseurs  asked  the 
question. 

"  Lady  Cecil  Clive.  What,  O'Donnell !  has  the  spell  of  the 
enchantress  stretched  all  the  way  to  Africa,  and  netted  you,  too, 
in  her  rose  chains?  Is  it  possible  you  know  La  Reine 
Blanche?" 

"No,"  the  chasseur  answered,  with  a  touch  of  impatience. 
"  I  don't  know  your  La  Reine  Blanche.  I  know — that  is,  I 
once  knew,  very  long  ago.  Lady  Cecil  Clive." 

**  My  good  fellow,"  VVyatt  murmured  plaintively,  "  don't  call 
her  mine — she  isn't.  The  cakes  and  cream  of  life  are  not  for 
me.  And  it's  all  the  same — Lady  Cecil,  the  White  Queen, 
Delilah,  Circe,  any  name  by  which  fair  and  fatal  sirens  have  ever 
been  known.  There  she  sits,  *  Queen  rose  of  the  rose-bud  gar- 
den of  girls.'  The  laureate  must  have  had  her  in  his  eye  when 
he  wrote  *  Maud.'  " 

The  African  officer  raised  his  glass  and  looked  long  and  ear- 
nestly at  that  brilliant  vision,  rose-crowned  and  diamond-decked. 
Then  his  glass  dropped,  and  he  turned  away.  Delamei  looked 
at  him  curiously. 


212 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE. 


If 
P 


f  ?  ■  I 
i-. 


9\    T       j 


"The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  all  still !  And  you  knew 
my  Lady  Cecil.     How  was  it — where  was  it  ?  " 

*'  It  was  in  Ireland — many  years  ago." 

*'  In  Ireland,  and  many  years  ago.  One  would  think  the 
lovely  Queenic  were  a  centenarian,  //oza  many  years  ago  ? 
Don't  be  so  sphinx-like.     Before  you  went  to  Algiers  ?  " 

**  liefo.e  I  went  to  Algiers— over  six  years  ago." 

*'  I  hope  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  you  going — it  is  a  way 
of  hers,  sending  doomed  men  to  exile!  Anywhere,  anywhere 
out  of  the  world  her  slaughtered  victims  rush.  She  must  have 
been  young  six  years  ago,  but  then  souie  of  these  sorceresses 
are  fatal  from  the  hour  they  cut  their  fuSt  teeth.  Say,  mon 
brave,  are  you  too  in  her  list  of  killed  an ^  wounded  ?  " 

"  Is  she  so  fatal  then  ?  "  O'Donnell  asiced,  shirking  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  Fatal !  fatal's  no  word  for  it  !  Ask  Wyatt,  ask  Lord  Long- 
lands,  ask  Sir  Godfrey  Vance — ask — ask  any  man  in  London. 
The  most  merciless  ilirt  that  ever  demoralized  mankind." 

"And  still — at  two-and-twenty — Lady  Cecil  Clive  is  J^ady 
Cecil  Clive." 

*'  How  pat  he  has  her  age  ?  Yes,  at  two-and-twenty  the  con- 
queress  still  walks  '  in  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free.'  But 
the  talk  of  club  and  drawing-room  is,  that  early  next  season  we 
pre  to  have  a  brilliant  wedding.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  to 
A  horn  she  has  been  j^ledged  since  childhood,  comes  to  claim 
her.  One  might  say  woo  and  win,  only  there  was  no  wooing 
in  the  case.  It's  a  family  affair — he  has  the  purse  of  Fortuna- 
tus,  she  the  l^eauty  of  the  Princess  Perfect ;  what  need  of  woo- 
ing in  such  a  case?  And  yet,"  with  a  second  curious  look 
**  do  you  know  what  she  told  me  one  night  not  very  long  ago  ?  " 

"  Not  being  a  wizard — no." 

"  We  were  at  Coven t  Garden;  there  was  an  Irish  play — a 
new  thing,  and  I  was  behind  her  chair.  We  spoke  casually  of 
Ireland,  and  she  told  me  she  had  been  there  and — '  mark  it, 
Horatio ' — that  the  happiest  days  of  her  life  were  those  days  in 
Ireland.  Oh  !  no  need  to  look  like  that !  I  don't  insinuate 
by  any  means  that  yoii  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  Apropos 
of  no  thing,  where's  that  prince  of  followers,  that  paragon  of 
henchmen,  that  matchless  servitor  of  the  last  of  the  O'Don- 
nells,  your  man  Lanty?" 

"Ah,  yes,  Lanty,"  Wyatt  said;  "haven't  laughed  once,  I 
assure  you,  since  I  last  saw  Lanty.  Don't  say  you  have  left 
him  behind  you  in  Africa ! " 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE. 


213 


:ncW 


•^WwJfc- 


"Lanty  is  with  nic,"  O'lJonncll  laughed  ;  "hc'shkc  SinbacTg 
Old  Man  of  the  Sea.  1  couldn't  shake  him  off  if  I  would.  I'll 
tell  him  you  asked." 

"And  you  only  remain  a  day  or  two  in  London?"  said 
Delamer.     *•  Where  do  you  go — to  Ireland  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present.  ^Ve  go,  my  sister  and  I,  to  Sussex  for  a 
week  or  two  ;  after  that  to  l^'rance,  then  back  to  Algiers." 

"Then  dine  to-morrow  with  me  at  IJiooks'.  There's  a  morn- 
ing party  at  Kew,  the  last  of  the  season,  and  La  Rcine 
Blanche  graces  it,  of  course.  No  doubt  she  will  be  glad  to  see 
an  old  friend  ;  you  will  come  ?  " 

"  No."  He  said  it  briefly  and  coldly.  "Certainly  not ;  my 
acquaintance  with  Lord  Ruysland's  daughter  was  of  the  slight- 
est. I  should  never  dream  of  resuming  it.  Call  upon  me  to- 
morrow at  my  quarters.  Here  is  my  card.  It  is  pleasant  to 
see  a  familiar  face  in  this,  to  me,  desert  of  London." 

•  ••••••• 

"  Cecil,"  Lord  Ruysland  said,  "a  word  with  you." 

The  opera  and  ball  were  over — :hey  had  arrived  home,  at 
the  big,  aristocratically  glopmy  mansion  in  Lowndes  Square — 
the  leaden  casket  which  held  this  priceless  koh-i-noor.  It  was 
the  town  house  of  Sir  Peter  Dangertield,  IJaronet,  of  Sussex — 
of  his  lady  rather — for  Sir  Peter  rarely  came  to  London  in  the 
season,  and  Lady  Dangerfield's  uncle,  the  earl,  being  alto- 
gether too  poor  to  have  a  residence  of  his  own,  took  up  his 
abode  with  his  niece. 

Lady  Cecil  stood  with  one  slippered  foot  on  the  carpeted 
stair,  paused  at  the  command  and  its  gravely  authoritative 
tone.  It  was  half-past  four  in  the  morning,  and  she  had 
waltzed  a  great  deal,  but  the  pearly  complexion  was  as  pure, 
the  brown  eyes  as  softly  lustrous  as  eight  hours  before.  With 
her  silks  flowing,  her  roses  and  jewels,  her  fair,  patrician  face, 
she  looked  a  charming  vision. 

"  You  want  me,  papa  ?  "  she  said  in  surprise.  "  Certainly. 
What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Come  this  way." 

Lie  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room — yet  lit,  but  deserted — 
closed  the  door,  and  placed  a  chair  for  her.  Still  more  sur- 
prised, she  sat  down.  An  interview  at  five  in  the  morning  ! 
VVhat  did  it  mean  ? 

"Cecil,"  he  began,  with  perfect  abruptness,  **  do  you  know 
Tregenna  is  on  his  way  here  ?  Will  be  with  us  in  less  than  a 
week  ?  " 


214 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE. 


1 1    p 


~l 


"Papa!" 

It  was  a  sort  of  cry  of  dismay.  Then  she  sat  silent,  looking 
at  him  acfhast. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  there  is  no  occasion  to  wear  that  face  of  con- 
sternation— is  there  ?  One  would  think  I  had  announced  the 
coming  of  an  ogre,  instead  of  the  gallant  gentleman  whose  wife 
you  are  to  be.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  last  night.  He  is  in  Paris 
—he  will  be  here,  as  I  say,  in  a  week.  Will  you  read  it  ?  There 
is  a  message,  of  course,  for  you." 

He  held  it  out  to  her.  As  she  stretched  forth  her  hand  and 
took  it  she  did  not  look  at  him.  A  faint  flush,  all  unusual,  had 
arisen  to  either  cheek.  She  took  it,  but  she  did  not  read  it — 
she  twisted  it  through  her  fingers,  her  eyes  still  averted. 

Her  father  stood  and  looked  at  her  cuiiously.  I  have  de- 
scribed Raoul,  Earl  of  Ruysland,  have  I  not  ? — tall,  thin,  high- 
bred, two  keen  gray  eyes,  a  thin,  cynical  mouth,  and  long,  slim 
hands  and  feet.  "  The  ingredients  of  human  happiness,"  says 
J\T  Diderot,  pithily,  "are  a  good  digestion,  a  bad  heart,  and  no 
conscience."  The  noble  Earl  of  Ruysland  possessed  the  in- 
gredients of  happiness  in  their  fullest.  He  had  never  loved 
anybody  in  his  life,  except,  perhaps,  for  a  few  months,  a  wom- 
an he  had  lost.  He  never  hated  any  one  ;  he  would  not  have 
put  himself  an  inch  out  of  his  way  to  serve  God  or  man  ;  he 
was  perfectly  civil  to  everybody  he  came  across  ;  he  had  never 
lost  his  temper  since  the  age  of  twenty.  His  manners  were 
perfect,  he  passed  for  the  most  amiable  of  men,  and — he  had 
never  done  a  good  turn  in  his  life.  He  had  squandered  two 
noble  fortunes — his  own  and  his  wife's,  and  he  stood  now,  as 
Delamer  had  said,  the  poorest  peer  in  Britain.  He  had  been 
everywhere  and  knew  everybody,  and  might  have  sung  with 
Captain  Morris  : 

"  In  life  I've  rung  all  changes  through, 
Run  every  pleasure  down." 

At  fifty-six  every  rood  of  land  he  owned  was  mortgaged,  his 
daughter  was  portionless,  and  he  was  a  dependent — nothing 
better — on  the  bounty  of  his  niece's  rich  husband,  the  Sussex 
baronet,  Sir  Peter  Dangcrfield. 

They  were  a  very  old  family,  the  Ruyslands,  of  course.  The 
first  had  come  over  with  Noah  and  the  Ark,  the  second  histoiy 
mentions  with  William  and  the  conquest.  And  the  one  aim 
and  object  of  Lord  Ruysland's  life  was  to  see  his  only  daughter 
the  bride  of  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna. 

*'  I  have  a  word  of  warning  to  give   you,  Queenie,"    Lord 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE, 


215 


Dicing 


high- 
slim 


'S 


: 


Ruysland  said,  after  that  long  pause ;  "  it  is  this  :  Stop  flirt- 
ing." 

"  Papa ! " 

"  You  have  made  that  remark  already,  my  dear,"  the  earl 
went  on,  placidly  ;  *'  and  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  grow  in- 
dignant. I  suppose  you  won't  pretend  to  say  you  don't  flirt ! 
1';.!  not  a  tyrannical  father,  I  think.  I  haven't  hitherto  interfered 
with  your  pastimes  in  any  way.  You  were  born  a  coquette, 
poor  child,  and  took  to* it  as  naturally  as  a  duckling  takes  to 
water.  Let  me  see,"  very  carelessly  this,  but  with  a  keen,  side- 
long glance — "you  tried  your  small  weapon  first  on  the  Celtic 
heart  of  that  fine  young  Irish  lad,  O'Donnell,  some  six  years 
ago,  and  have  been  at  it  hard  and  fast  ever  since." 

"  Papa  ! "  She  half  rose,  the  color  vivid  now  on  the  clear, 
pale  cheeks. 

"And  again  papa!  I  speak  the  truth,  do  I  not,  my  dear? 
You  are  a  coquette  born,  as  I  have  said,  and  knowing  you  pos- 
sessed of  pride  enough  and  common-sense  enough  to  let  no  man 
one  inch  nearer  than  it  was  your  will  he  should  come,  I  have 
up  to  the  present  in  no  way  interfered  with  your  favorite  sport. 
But  the  time  has  come  to  change  all  that.  Sir  Arthur  Tregen- 
na  is  coming,  and  I  warn  you  your  customary  amusement  won't 
do  here.  You  have  had  your  day — you  niay  safely  withdraw 
from  the  fray  where  you  have  been  conqueress  so  long,  and  rest 
on  your  laurels." 

She  rose  up,  and  stood  stately,  and  beautiful,  and  haughty 
before  him. 

"  Papa,  you  speak  as  if  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  had  power,  had 
authority  over  me.  He  has  none — none.  He  has  no  claim-— 
no  shadow  of  claim  upon  me." 

"  You  mistake,  I>ady  Cecil,"  the  cool,  keen,  steel-gray  eyes  of 
the  earl  met  the  indignant  brown  ones  full — "  or  you  forget  Sir 
Arthur  Tregenna  is  your  afiianced  husband." 

"  My  affianced  husband  !  A  man  who  has  never  spoken  one 
word  to  me  in  his  life  beyond  the  most  ordinary  civilities  of 
common  acquaintance ! " 

"  And  whose  fault  is  that,  Queenie  ?  Not  his,  poor  fellow, 
certainly.  Carry  your  mind  back  three  vears — to  your  firijt 
season — your  presentation.  He  spent  thr.t  season  in  London, 
only  waiting  for  one  word,  one  look  of  encouragement  from  you 
to  speak.  That  word  never  came.  You  flirted  desperately  with 
young  Lennox,  of  the  Scotch  Grays,  and  v.-hen  he  pro[)osed, 
threw  him  over.  He  exchanged  into  an  Indian  regiment,  and 
was  shot  through  the  heart  by  a  Sepoy  bullet,  just  one  week  after 


2l6 


LA   REINE  BLANCHE. 


he  became  Lord  Glenallan.  Not  a  pleasant  recollection  for 
you^  I  should  think,  Lady  Cecil ;  but  as  I  said  before,  I  don't 
wish  to  reproach  you.  You  are  to  marry  Sir  Arthur — that  is  us 
fixed  as  tate." 

And  looking  in  his  face,  she  knew  it.  She  sank  back  in  her 
seat,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  with  a  sob,  more  like  a  child 
than  the  bright,  invincible  La  Reine  Blanche. 

*'  Papa,  you  are  unkind — you  are  cruel.  I  don't  care  for  Sir 
Arthur;  he  doesn't  care  for  me." 

"  Who  is  t  ^  tell  us  that  ?  He  will  differ  greatly  from  most  of 
his  kind  if  he  find  the  lesson  a  hard  one  to  learn.  And  you 
don't  care  for  him  ?  My  Lady  Cecil  do  you  ever—  have  you 
ever  realized  what  you  c-re — an  earl's  daughter  and  a — beggar?" 

She  did  not  lift  her  face.  He  looked  at  her  grimly,  and  went 
on: 

"  A  beggar — literally  that — without  a  farthing  of  allowance — 
without  a  roof  you  can  call  your  own — without  a  penny  of  por- 
tion. Do  ycu  know,  Lady  Cecil,  that  I  lost  two  thousand  on 
this  year's  Derby — my  alU  Learn  it  now  at  least.  We  sit 
here  this  June  morning,  Queenie,  paupers — with  title  and 
name,  and  the  best  blood  of  the  realm — paupers  !  Sir  Peter 
Dangerfield,  the  most  pitiful  little  miser  on  earth,  pays  for  the 
bread  you  eat,  for  the  roof  that  shelters  you,  for  the  carriage  you 
drive  in,  the  opera  box  you  sit  in,  the  servants  who  wait  upon 
you.  Ke  j>ays  for  them  because  the  Salic  law  has  exploded  in 
England,  and  he  is  under  petticoat  government.  He  is  afraid 
of  his  wife,  and  his  wife  is  your  cousin.  That  pink  silk  and 
point-lace  trimming  you  wear  is  excessively  becoming,  my  dear, 
imported  from  Worth,  was  it  not  ?  Take  care  of  it,  Queenie ; 
there  isn't  a  farthing  in  the  Ruysland  exchequer  to  buy  another 
when  that  is  worn.  And  I  air — unkind,  cruel.  My  dear,  I 
shall  never  foi^e  you  to  call  me  that  again.  Don't  marry  Sir 
Arthur  Tregeni.a.  You  play  very  nicely,  sing  very  nicely,  draw 
very  nicely,  ana  waltz  exquisitely — what  is  to  hinder  you  turn- 
ing these  accomplishments  to  account  ?  Earl's  daughters  have 
been  governesses  before  now,  and  may  again.  I  advise  you, 
though,  to  write  out  your  advertisement  and  send  it  to  the 
Times  at  once,  while  I  have  still  a  half  guinea  left  for  its  inse'-- 
tion."  He  drew  out  his  watch — a  hunting  watch,  the  case 
sparkling  with  diamonds  ;  "  I  will  not  keep  you  up  longer — it  is 
nearly  five  o'clock." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  confronted  him.  The  Hush  had  all 
faded  out.     She  was  whiter  than  the  roses  in  her  hair. 


> 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE. 


217 


:tion  for 

I  don't 

|hat  is  as 

|k  in  her 

a  child 

for  Sir 

most  of 
nd  you 
ve   you 
-ggar?" 
id  went 

ance — 

of  por- 

and  on 

We  sit 

le   and 
r  Peter 

for  the 
tge  you 
it  upon 
)ded  in 
!  afraid 
Ik  and 
f  der.r, 
eenie ; 
nother 
lear,  I 
ly  Sir 

draw 

turn- 
i  have 

you, 
0  the 
inse'-- 

case 
-it  is 

dall 


V 


"^ 


*•  This  is  all  true  you  have  been  telHng  me,  papa  ?  We  are 
so  poor,  so  dependent  as  this — hopelessly  and  irretrievably 
ruined  ?  " 

*'  Hopelessly  and  irretrievably  ruined." 

He  spoke  with  perfect  calmness.  Ruined  beyond  all  hope — 
ruin  wrought  by  his  own  hand — and  he  faced  her  without  falter 
or  blanch. 

She  stood  a  moment  silent,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  letter — 
pale,  proud,  and  cold.     Then  she  spoke  : 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  worth  thirty  thousand  a  year.  I 
wish  you  to  marry  Sir  Arthur." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  repeated,  still  proudly,  still  coldly. 
"  He  has  never  spoken  one  word  to  me,  never  written  one  word 
that  even  a  vainer  woman  than  I  am  could  construe  into  love- 
making  ;  and  as  I  am  a  pauper,  and  he  worth  thirty  thousand  a 
year,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  he  marries  me  from  interested 
motives.  Does  he  say  here,"  touching  the  letter,  ''  that  he 
wishes  me  to  become  his  wife  ?  " 

.*'  He  does  not.  But  he  is  a  man  of  honor,  and  your  name 
has  long  been  linked  with  his.  To  have  her  name  linked  with 
that  of  any  man  compromises  any  woman,  unless  it  end  in 
marriage.  He  knows  this.  He  is  the  soul  of  honor ;  he  is 
coming  here  with  no  other  intention  than  that  of  asking  you  to 
be  his  wife." 

A  flush  of  pain — of  shame — of  humiliation,  passed  over  the 
exquisite  face  of  the  earl's  daughter. 

"  It  is  rather  hard  on  Sir  Arthur  that  he  should  be  obliged  to 
marry  me  whether  or  no,  and  a  little  hard  also  on  me.  And 
this  marriage  will  save  you  from  ruin — will  it,  papa  ?  " 

"  It  will  save  me  from  ruin — from  disgrace — from  exile  for 
life.  It  will  give  me  a  house  wherein  to  end  my  days  ;  it  will 
make  those  last  days  happy.  I  desire  it  more  strongly  than  I 
ever  desired  anything  in  my  life.  I  do  not  deny,  Cecil,  that  I 
have  been  reckless  and  prodigal ;  but  all  that  is  past  and  done 
with.  I  don't  want  to  see  the  daughter  of  whom  1  have  been 
so  proud — the  toast  of  the  clubs,  the  belle  of  the  ball-rooms, 
the  beauty  of  London — eating  the  bitter  bread  of  dependence. 
Cecil,  it  is  of  no  use  struggling  against  destiny,  and  your  destiny 
has  written  you  down  J.ady  Cecil  Tregenna.  When  Sir  Arthur 
speaks,  your  answer  will  be  Yes." 

"  It— will  be  Yes." 

She  said  it  with  a  sort  of  gasp  !  No  young  queen  upon  her 
10 


■SSi 


^\\l 


2l8 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE. 


throne  had  ever  been  prouder  or  purer,  for  all  her  flirting,  than 
La  Reine  Blanche ;  and  what  it  cost  her  to  make  this  conces- 
sion, her  own  humbled  soul  alone  knew. 

"  Thank  you,  Queenie  ; "  her  father  drew  her  to  him,  and 
touched  his  lips  to  her  cheek  for  perhaps  the  third  time  in  their 
existence.  "You  never  disappointed  me  in  your  life  ;  I  kn^-W 
you  would  not  now,.  It  is  the  dearest  desire  of  my  heart,  child. 
You  will  be  the  wealthiest  and  most  brilliant  woman  in  Eng- 
land. You  have  made  me  happy.  Once  more,  thanks  very 
much,  and  good-morning." 

He  threw  open  the  door,  bowed  her  out  with  most  Chester- 
fieldian  politeness,  and  watched  the  tall,  graceful  figure,  in  its 
rose  silk,  its  rich  laces,  its  perfumed  flowers,  its  gleaming  jew- 
els, from  iight.     Then  he  smiled  to  himself: 

••  'It's  a  very  fine  thirii^  to  be  father-in-law 
To  a  very  magnificent  three-tailed  bashaw.' 

"She  has  promised,  and  all  is  safe.  I  know  her  well — I 
know  him  well.  The  thumbscrews  of  the  holy  office  could  not 
make  either  break  a  pledge  once  given.  Ah,  my  lady !  I 
wonder  if  you  would  have  promised,  even  with  penury  staring 
you  in  the  face,  if  you  had  seen,  as  I  did,  Redmond  O'Donneli 
looking  at  you  at  the  opera  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  went  slowly  up  to  her  rooms  «^railing  her  ball 
draperies  after  her,  a  violet  and  gold  boudoir,  a  sleeping-room 
adjoining,  all  white  and  blue.  And  seated  in  the  boudoir,  still 
wearing  her  amber  silk,  her  Spanish  laces,  and  opals,  sat  the 
mistress  of  the  mansion.  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield's  wife. 

"  What  an  endless  age  you  have  been,  Queenie,"  Lady  Dan- 
gerfield  said,  peevishly.  "  What  on  earth  could  Uncle  Raoul 
have  to  say  to  you  at  <^his  blessed  hour  of  morning  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  stood  beside  her,  a  touch  of  weariness  on  her 
pale  face. 

"  He  told  me  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  was  coming — would  be 
here  next  week." 

"Ah  I "  my  lady  said,  looking  at  her  quickly,  " at  last  I  To 
marry  you,  Queenie  ?  " 

She  stood  silent — pained — shamed— humbled  beyond  ex- 
pression. 

**  You  don't  speak,  and  you  look  vexed.  Queenie,"  with 
energy,  "you  don't  mean  to  say — you  never  will  be  so  silly — 
so  stupidly  silly — as  to  refuse  him  if  he  asks?" 

^^ If  he  asks!"  Lady  Cecil  repeated,  with  inexpressible  bft- 


s^ 


,- 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE. 


219 


m,  and 
in  their 
kn^w 
child, 
n  Eng- 
:s  very 


terness.  "  Oh,  Ginevra  !  don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  I  am  to 
be  sold,  it  seems,  if  this  rich  Cornishman  chooses  to  buy  nie. 
What  choice  have  I  in  the  matter — what  choice  had  you  ?  We 
are  like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  who  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin 
— as  fair,  perhaps,  and  as  useless.  When  our  masters  come  for 
us  we  go — until  then  we  run  the  round  of  Vanity  Fair  and  wait. 
Ginevra,  I  wonder  what  it  is  like  to  be  poor  ?  " 

"  It  is  like  misery — it  is  like  torture — it  is  like  death  ! " 
Lady  Dangerfield  burst  out  passionately.  "  I  was  poor  once, 
wretchedly,  miserably  poor,  and  I  tell  you  I  would  rather  die 
a  thousand  times  than  undergo  penury  again.  You  may 
know  how  horrible  poverty  is,  when  it  is  more  horrible  than 
marrying  Peter  Dangerfield.  I  abhor  both,  but  I  abhor  pov- 
erty most.  No  need  to  look  at  me  like  that,  Queenie  ;  I  mean 
what  I  say.  You  never  supix)sed  I  cared  for  that  odious  little 
monster,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Ginevra,"  Lady  Cecil  said,  falling  back  wearily  into  an  easy 
chair,  "  I  begin  to  think  they  are  right  in  those  heathen  coun- 
tries— India — China — Japan — where  is  it — where  they  destroy 
female  children  as  soon  as  they  are  born?  It  is  miserable,  it 
is  degrading,  it  is  horrible — the  lives  we  lead,  the  marriages  we 
make.     I  hate  myself,  scorn  myself  to-night." 

Lady  Dangerfield  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Strong  language,  my  dear,  and  strong  language  is  bad 
'  form '  always.  Has  La  Reine  Blanche  found  her  Darniey  at 
last?" 

"  If  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  lived  in  these  days,  she  would 
never  have  lost  her  great,  brave  heart  to  so  poor  a  creature  as 
Henry  Darniey.  "  No,  Ginevra ;  no  Darniey  exists  for  me. 
JVlen  are  all  alike  in  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty — all  talk  with 
the  same  drawl,  all  stare  out  of  the  same  club  windows,  all  part 
their  hair  down  the  middle,  and  do  nothing.    Are  you  going?" 

"Time  to  go  at  five  o'clock,  is  it  not?  I  only  stopped  in 
here  to  tell  you  we  go  down  to  Scarswood  in  three  days.  Send 
for  Desiree,  Queenie,  and  go  to  bed.  Even  your  complexion 
will  not  stand  forever  such  horribly  late  hours." 

And  then,  yawning  very  much.  Lady  Dangerfield  went  away 
to  bed,  and  Lady  Cecil  was  left  alone. 

It  was  late,  certainly,  but  the  Earl  of  Ruysland's  daughtei* 
did  not  take  her  cousin's  advice  and  go  to  bed.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  sat  where  she  had  left  her  for  over  an  hour,  never 
once  moving — lost  in  thought.  Then  she  slowly  arose,  crossed 
over  to  where  a  writing-case,  all  gold  and  ebony,  stood  upon  an 


;■ 


i'-t:      fr 


220 


LA  REINE  BLANCHE. 


inlaid  table,  took  a  tiny  golden  key  from  her  chatelaine  and 
unlocked  it.  It  contained  many  drawers.  One  of  these, 
opening  with  a  spring,  she  drew  out,  removed  its  contents,  and 
stood,  with  a  smile  half  sad,  half  mocking  on  her  lips,  gazing 
upon  them.  Relics  evidently.  A  branch  of  clematis,  dry  and 
colorless,  but  sweet  still,  a  short  curl  of  dark,  crisp  hair,  a  pen- 
cil sketch  of  a  frank,  manly,  boyish  face,  and  a  note — that  was 
all.  The  note  was  yellow  with  time,  the  ink  faded,  and  this  is 
what  it  contained,  in  a  big,  bold  hand  : 

"Dear  Lady  Cecil: — I  rode  to  Ballynahaggart  yesterday,  and  got 
the  book  and  the  music  you  wanted.  I  shall  fetch  them  over  when  I  come 
at  the  usual  hour  to-day, 

"Respectfully,  R." 

She  read  it  over,  still  with  that  half-smile  on  her  lips. 

"  'When  I  come  at  the  usual  hour,'  "  she  repeated,  "and  he 
never  came.  It  was  the  strangest  thing — I  wonder  at  it  to  this 
day.  It  was  so  unlike  papa  to  hurry  off  abruptly  in  that  way 
— never  even  want  to  say  good-by.  And  I  used  to  think — but 
I  was  only  sixteen  and  a  little  fool.  One  outlives  all  that  when 
they  grow  up.  Still  fools  suffer,  I  suppose,  as  greatly  as  wiser 
people.  Some  of  the  old  pain  comes  back  now  as  I  look  at 
these  things.  How  different  he  was — poor,  impetuous  boy — 
from  the  men  I  meet  now.  When  I  read  of  Sir  Launcelot  and 
Sir  Galahad  I  think  of  him.  And  I  am  to  marry  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna  when  it  pleases  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  to  do  me  the 
honor  of  taking  me.  I  have  kept  my  relics  long  enough — it  is 
time  I  threw  them  out  of  the  window." 

She  made  a  step  forward,  as  if  to  follow  the  word  by  the 
deed ;  then  stopped,  irresolute. 

'*  As  Sir  Arthur  has  not  asked  me  yet,  what  can  it  matter  ? 
As  I  have  kept  them  so  long,  I  will  keep  them  until  he  does." 

She  replaced  them,  closed  and  locked  the  writing-case,  and 
rang  for  her  maid.  The  French  woman  came,  sleepy  and  blink- 
ing, and  Lady  Cecil  sat  like  a  statue  under  her  hands,  being 
disrobed  and  robed  again  for  rest. 

But  she  was  in  the  breakfast  parlor  a  good  half  hour  before 
either  her  father  and  cousin.  She  was  looking  over  a  book  of 
Vater-color  sketches  when  Lady  Dangerfield  entered,  looking 
at  one  Jong,  intently,  wistfully — a  sunrise  on  the  sea.  The 
baronet's  wife  came  softly  uj?  behind  the  earl's  daughter,  and 
glanced  over  her  shoulder. 

"  A  pretty  scene  enough,  Queenie,  but  nothing  to  make  you 


MISS  HERNCASTLE. 


221 


this  is 


R." 


wear  that  pensive  face.  Of  what  are  you  thinking  so  deeply, 
as  you  sit  there  and  gaze  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  hfted  her  dreamy  eyes. 

"  Of  Ireland.  I  have  often  seen  the  sun  rise  out  of  the  sea 
like  this,  on  the  Ulster  coast.  And  I  was  thinking  of  the  days, 
Ginevra,  that  can  never  come  again." 


CHAPTER  II. 


MISS   HERNCASTLE. 


INEVRA,"  Lord  Ruysland  said,  in  his  blandest  tone, 
and  all  his  tones  were  bland,  '*  how  soon  do  we  go 
down  to  Sussex  ?  I  say  we,  of  course  ;  for  impover- 
ished mendicants,  like  myself  and  Cecil,  must  throw 
ourselves  on  the  bounty  of  our  more  fortunate  relatives,  until 
our  empty  coffers  are  replenished.  How  soon  do  we  go— next 
week?" 

"  Next  Monday,"  responded  Lady  Dangerfield ;  "  in  three 
days.  Sir  Peter  writes  me,  Scarswood  has  been  rejuvenated, 
re-hung,  re-carpeted,  re-fiirnished,  and  quite  ready.  We  go  on 
Monday ;  very  m.>ny  have  gone  already.  Parliament  closes  so 
delightfully  early  this  year.  I  don't  pretend  to  go  into  ecstasies 
over  the  country,  like  Cecil  here,  for  instance ;  but  really,  Lon- 
don is  not  habitable  after  the  last  week  of  June." 

"  Ah  !  next  Monday—  so  soon  ?  Then  we  shall  not  meet 
Tregenna  in  town,  as  I  had  supposed  ?  Still — Ginevra  I 
write  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  to-day — you  remember  Tregenna, 
of  course.  He  is  in  Paris  at  present,  and  on  his  way  to  us  ; 
may  I  trespass  so  far  upon  your  hospitality,  my  dear,  as  to  in- 
vite him  to  Scarswood  ?  " 

They  were  still  seated,  a  family  party  of  three,  around  the 
breakfast  table.  Lady  Dangerfield  glanced  across  at  her 
cousin.  Lady  Cecil  sat  listlessly  back  in  her  chair,  offering 
her  little  curly  King  Charles  a  chicken  wing  ;  she  held  the  tit, 
bit  temptingly  over  Bijou's  wrinkled  nose,  now  laughing,  as  he 
leaped  up  angrily,  while  all  his  tiny  silver  bells  rang,  not  once 
lifting  her  eyes. 

"  Certainly,  Uncle  Raoul,  invite  him  by  all  means.     Scars- 


« 
222 


MISS  HERNCASTLE. 


M'ood  is  big  enough  to  hold  even  the  great  Cornish  baronet. 
I  remember  Sir  Arthur  very  well ;  indeed,  I  was  mortally 
afraid  of  him  in  those  frivolous,  by-gone  days,  and  thought  him 
a  horrid  prig  ;  but  of  course  that  was  all  my  lack  of  judgment. 
Present  my  compliments  and  remembrances,  and  say  we  shall 
be  delighted  to  see  him  at  Sussex." 

"  Thanks,  my  dear ;  I  knew  I  might  count  upon  you.  Sir 
Peter,  now — " 

"  Sir  Peter  will  do  precisely  as  I  see  fit,"  Sir  Peter's  wife 
answered,  decisively ;  "let  Sir  Peter  keep  to  his  beetles  and 
butterflies.  Did  you  know  his  latest  hobby  was  turning  natur- 
alist, and  impaling  horribly  crawling  things  upon  pins?  I-et 
him  keep  to  the  beetles,  and  leave  the  amenities  of  civiHzcd 
life  to  civilized  beings.  Queenie,  do  let  Bijou  alone  ;  his  bells 
and  his  barking  agonize  my  poor  nerves.  Have  you  no  mes- 
sage to  send  to  Sir  Arthur  ?  " 

*'  I  think  not.  Take  your  chicken.  Bijou,  and  run  away 
with  Tompkins,  for  your  morning  airing  in  the  square.  Half- 
past  twelve.  Ginevra,  do  we  dress  for  the  flower  show  at 
Cheswick,  or  the  morning  party  at  Kew  ?  " 

"The  morning  party  at  Kew.  I  promised  Lady  Chantilly 
not  to  fail  her  a  week  ago.  But  first,  Cecil,  the  children's 
governess  comes  to-day,  and  I  want  you  to  see  her  and  help 
me  decide.  I  advertised,  as  you  know,  and  out  of  the  troops 
of  applicants,  this  one — what's  her  name,  again? — Miss  Hern- 
castle — seems  to  suit  me  best.  And  her  terms  are  so  moderate, 
and  she  plays  so  very  nicely,  and  her  manner  is  so  quiet,  and 
everything,  that  I  as  good  as  told  her  yesterday  that  I  would 
take  her.  She  comes  at  two  for  her  final  answer,  and  I  should 
like  you  to  tell  me  what  you  think  of  her." 

"  And  I  shall  go  and  write  my  letter — your  compliments  and 
kind  remembrances,  Gmevra,  and  a  cordial  invitation  to  Scars- 
wood  from  Sir  Peter  and  yourself.  And  you  tell  me  Sir  Peter 
has  become  a  naturalist  ?     Ah  !  poor,  little  Sir  Peter  !  " 

And,  with  a  smile  on  his  lip  and  a  sneer  in  his  eye,  the 
Earl  of  Ruysland  arose  and  wended  his  way  to  his  study. 

Poor,  little  Sir  Peter,  indeed  ! 

Within  nine  months  of  his  accession  to  the  throne  of  Scars- 
v^ood.  Sir  Peter  Dangeriield,  Baronet,  had  led  to  the  "  hyme- 
neal altar,"  as  tha  Aforning  Post  told  you,  Ginevra,  only  surviv- 
ing daughter  of  the  late  Honorable  Thomas  Clive,  and  relict 
of  Cosmo  Dalrymple,  Esq.  She  was  a  niece  of  the  Earl  of 
Ruysland,  she  was  petite,  plump,  pretty,  poor;  she  was  nine- 


ronet. 
ortally 
It  him 
jinent. 
shall 

Sir 


is 


wife 
and 
natur- 

vllizcd 
s  bells 
o  nics- 

avvay 

Hair- 

o\v  at 


the 


Jtf/SS  IIERNCASTLE. 


223 


and-twenty ;  she  had  twin  daughters,  and  not  a  farthing  to 
bless  herself.  At  the  mature  age  of  twenty-four  she  had  eloped 
with  a  clerk  in  the  Treasury,  three  years  younger  than  herself, 
a  name  as  old  as  her  own,  a  purse  as  emj^ty,  and  they  were 
cast  ofif  at  once  and  forever  by  their  families  on  both  sides. 
Their  united  fortunes  kept  them  in  Paris  until  the  honeymoon 
ended,  and  then  Poverty  stalked  grimly  in  at  the  door,  and 
Love  flew  out  of  the  window  in  disgust,  and  never  came  back. 
They  starved  and  they  grubbed  in  every  Continental  city  and 
cheap  watering-place ;  they  bickered,  they  quarreled,  they 
reproached  and  recriminated;  and  one  dark  and  desperate 
night,  just  five  years  after  liis  love  match,  Cosmo  Dalrymple. 
Esquire,  stirred  half  an  ounce  or  so  of  laudanum  into  his  ab 
sinthe,  and  wound  up  his  chapter  of  the  story. 

Mrs.  Dalrymple  and  the  twins,  two  black-eyed  dolls  of  four, 
canie  back  to  England  in  weeds  and  woe,  and  the  paternal 
roof  opened  once  more  to  receive  her.  Very  subdued,  soft  of 
voice,  gentle  of  manner,  and  monstrously  pretty  in  her  widow's 
cap  and  crapes,  little  Mrs.  Dalrymple  chanced  one  day,  at  a 
vater  party  in  die  neighborhood,  to  meet  the  Sussex  baronet. 
Sir  Prter  Dangerfield.  .Is  there  a  destiny  in  those  things  thai 
shape  our  ends  without  volition  of  our  own  ? — or  is  it  that  we 
all  must  play  the  fool  once  at  least  in  our  lives?  Sir  Peter  saw 
• — and  fell  in  love.  Before  Mrs.  Dalrymple  had  been  twelve 
months  a  widow,  she  was  again  a  wife. 

■  Five  years  of  married  life,  and  living  by  her  wits,  had  sharp- 
ened those  wits  to  an  uncommon  degree.  She  read  the  bar- 
onet like  a  book.  He  was  a  miser  to  the  core,  mean  beyond 
all  ordinary  meanness,  half  monkey,  half  tiger  in  his  nature  ; 
and  her  plumpness,  and  her  prettiness,  her  round,  black  eyes, 
her  faltering  voice,  and  timid  manner  did  their  work.  He  fell 
in  love,  and  before  the  first  fever  of  that  hot  fancy  had  time  to 
cool,  had  made  her  Lady  Dangerfield,  and  himself  miserable 
for  life. 

She  was  nothing  that  he  thought  her,  and  everything  that 
he  thought  her  not.  She  was  a  vixen,  a  Kate  whom  no  earthly 
Petruchio  could  tame.  She  despised  him,  she  laughed  at  him  ; 
she  was  master  and  mistress  both  ;  she  flirted,  she  squandered 
his  money  like  water — what  did  she  not  do  ?  And  the  twins, 
kept  in  the  background  in  the  halcyon  days  of  courtship,  were 
all  at  once  brought  forward,  the  black  frocks  flung  aside,  gay 
tartans,  muslins,  aflcl  silks  bought,  and  a  governess  engaged. 
Scarswood  was  thrown  open  to  the  county,  a  house  in  May- 


3 


> 


.  i'il 


ii ' 


t  j 


224 


M/SS  HERNCASTLE, 


fair  leased,  ivarties,  dinner.^,  concerts,  operas — the  whole  round 
of  fashionable  life  ran.  And  her  poor  relatives  fixed  ii|)on  him 
like  barnacles  on  a  boat.  The  Earl  of  Ruysland  made  his 
houses,  his  horses,  his  servants,  his  cook,  his  banker  his  osvn, 
without  a  thought  of  gratitude,  a  word  of  thanks.  His  wife 
sneered  at  him,  her  high-titled  relatives  ignored  him,  men  black- 
balled him  at  their  clubs,  and  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
turned  to  buttermilk  in  his  breast.  He  became  a  misan- 
thro[)e,  and  buried  himself  down  at  Scarswood,  did  humbly  as 
his  lady  ordered  him,  and  took,  as  you  have  neard  her  say,  to 
impaling  butterflies  on  pins.  If  our  fellow  creatures  are  to 
torture  us,  it  is  some  compensation  to  torture,  in  our  turn,  bugs 
and  beetles,  if  nothing  better  ofters. 

I.ady  Cecil  came  sweeping  downstairs  presently — tall,  and 
slim,  and  white  as  a  lily.  Her  India  muslin,  with  its  soft 
lace  trimmings  trailed  in  fleecy  clouds  behind  her — all  her 
lovely  hazel  hiir  hung  half-curled  in  a  rich  bronze  mass  over 
tlie  pearly  shoulders.  A  Mechlin  scarf  hung  about  her  more 
like  drapery  than  a  shawl ;  and  a  bonnet,  a  marvel  of  Parisian 
handicraft,  half  point-lace,  half  lilies  of  the  valley,  crowned  that 
exquisite,  gold-hued  head. 

The  drawing-room  was  deserted — Lady  Dangerfield  was  not 
yet  down.  Lady  Cecil  was  two-and-twenty,  Lady  Dangerfield 
five-and-thirty,  and  for  every  ten  minutes  we  spend  before  the 
glass  at  twenty,  we  spend  an  hour  on  the  wrong  side  of  thirty. 
She  took  a  book  and  sank  down  among  the  amber  satin  cush- 
ions of  a  dormeuse  near  the  open  window,  and  began  to  read. 
So  she  had  sat,  a  charming  vision,  for  upward  of  half  an  hour, 
when  her  cousin,  in  pale  flowing  silks,  youthful  and  elegant, 
floated  in. 

"  Have  I  kept  you  waiting,  Queenie  ?  But  that  tiresome 
Deli>hine  "nas  no  more  eye  for  color  or  effect  than — " 

"Miss  Herncastle,  my  lady,"  Soames,  the  footman,  inter- 
rupted. 

And  my  lady  stopped  short  and  whirled  around. 

"  Ah,  yes — I  had  forgotten.  Will  you  take  a  seat  for  a  mo- 
ment. Miss  Herncastle  ?  I  was  really  in  such  a  hurry  yester- 
day, when  I  saw  you,  that  I  had  no  time  to  speak  of  anything 
but  terms.  We  are  over-due  as  it  is,  but — I  think  you  told  me 
you  never  were  governess  before  ?  " 

"  I  never  was,  my  lady." 

Only  five  short  words,  but  Lady  Tecil  laid  down  her  book 
and  looked  up  surprised  into  sudden  interest.     It  was  such  a 


MISS  HERNCASTLE. 


22$ 


round 
111  liiiii 

k;  his 
own, 

s  wife 
bUick- 
iclness 
misan- 
ibly  as 
say,  to 
are  to 
I,  bugs 


inter- 


' 


J 


iweet  voice — so  deep,  so  clear,  so  musical  in  its  timbre.  She 
looked  up  and  saw  a  tall,  a  very  tall  young  woman,  dressed  in 
plain  dark  colors,  sink  into  the  seat  Lady  Dangerficld  had  in- 
dicated by  a  wave  of  her  pearl-gloved  hand. 

"  Then  may  I  beg  to  know  what  you  did  do  ?  You  are  not, 
excuse  me,  very  young — seven-and-twenty  now,  I  should 
think  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lady  ;  three-and-twenty."  " 

"  Ah  !  three-and-twenty,  and  going  out  as  governess  for  the 
first  time.     Pray  what  were  you  before  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  shrank  a  little  as  she  listened.  Ginevra  went  to 
work  for  the  prosecution  in  so  deliberate,  so  cold-blooded  a 
manner.  She  looked  at  the  governess  and  thought,  more  and 
more  interested,  what  a  singular  face  it  was.  Handsome  it  was 
not — never  had  been — but  some  indescribable  fascination  held 
Lady  Cecil's  gaze  fast.  The  eyes  were  dark,  cold,  brilliant ; 
the  eyebrows,  eyelashes,  and  hair  of  jetty  blackness  ;  the  face 
like  marble — literally  like  marble — as  changeless,  as  colorless, 
locked  in  as  passionless  calm. 

"  A  strange  face — an  interesting  face,"  Lady  Cecil  thought ; 
"  the  face,  if  I  am  any  judge,  of  a  woman  who  has  suffered 
greatly,  and  learned  to  endure.     A  face  that  hides  a  history." 

"  I  was  a  music  teacher,"  the  low,  melodious,  even  tones  of 
Miss  Herncastle  made  answer ;  "  1  gave  lessons  when  I  could 
get  pupils.  But  pupils  in  London  are  difficult  to  get.  I  saw 
your  advertisement  in  the  Times,  for  a  nursery  governess,  and 
I  applied." 

"And  you  are  willing  to  accept  the  terms  I  offered  yester- 
day ?  " 

The  terms  were  so  small  that  Lady  Dangerfield  was  abso- 
lutely ashamed  to  name  them  before  her  cousin.  At  heart.,  and 
where  her  own  gratification  was  not  concerned,  she  was  as  great 
a  miser  as  Sir  Peter  himself. 

"  I  will  accept  your  terms,  my  lady.  Salary  is  not  so  much 
an  object  with  me  as  a  home." 

"  Indeed  !     You  have  none  of  your  own,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  I  have  none,  my  lady." 

She  made  the  answer  quite  calmly,  neither  voice  nor  face 
altering. 

"  You  are  an  orphan  ?  "  ; 

"  I  am  an  orphan." 

"Well,"  Lady  Dangerfield  said,  "your  recommendations  are 
certainly  tmobjectionable,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  would  not 
10* 


•:      ¥ 


5  i 


f     I 


'  V. 


226 


MISS  HERNCASTI.E. 


suit.  Just  open  the  piano,  Miss  Mcrncastle,  and  play  seme  lit- 
tle thing  that  I  may  judge  of  your  touch  and  execution.  If 
there  be  one  thing  1  wish  you  particularly  to  attend  to,  it  is  my 
children's  music  and  accent.     You  speak  French?" 

*'  Yes,  my  lady." 

"And  sing?" 

There  was  an  instant's  hesitation — then  the  reply  came  : 

"  No,  madame,  I  do  not  sing." 

*'  That  is  unfortunate.     Play,  however." 

She  obeyed  at  once.  She  played  from  memory,  and  chose 
an  air  of  Schubert's — a  little  thing,  but  sweet  and  pathetic,  as 
it  is  the  nature  of  Schubert's  music  to  be.  It  was  a  favorite  of 
Lady  Cecil's  as  it  chanced,  but  never  had  the  pearl  keys,  un- 
der her  fingers,  spoke  in  music  a  story  half  so  plaintive,  half  so 
pathetic  as  this.  The  slanting  June  sunlight  fell  full  upon  the 
face  of  the  player — that  fixed,  dusk,  emotionless  Hice,  with  its 
changeless  pallor  ;  and,  more  and  more  interested,  Lady  Cecil 
half  rose  on  her  elbow  to  look. 

"That  will  do,"  Ginevra  said  graciously;  "that's  a  simj^e 
melody,  but  you  play  it  quite  prettily.  Cecil,  love,  what  do  yoa 
think  ?     Miss  Herncastle  will  suit  very  well,  will  she  not  ?  " 

"  I  think  Miss  Herncastle  quite  capable  of  teaching  music 
to  pupils  double  the  age  of  Pearl  and  Pansy,"  replied  Lady 
Cecil,  decidedly.  "Miss  Herncastle,  is  it  possible  you  do  not 
sing  ?     You  have  the  face  of  a  singer." 

Up  to  this  moment  Miss  Herncastle  had  not  been  aware  a 
third  person  was  present.  She  turned  to  Lady  Cecil,  and  the 
large  electric  eyes,  so  dark  under  their  black  lashes,  met  the 
soft  hazel  ones  full. 

"  I  do  not  sing." 

"Then  I  have  mistaken  a  singing  face  for  the  first  time. 
Ginevra,  I  don't  wish  to  hurry  you,  but  if  we  go  at  all — " 

"  Good  Heavens  !  yes  !  "  cried  Lady  Dangerfield,  glancing  in 
sudden  hurry  at  her  watch.  "  We  shall  be  frightfully  late,  and 
I  promised  Lady  Chantilly — Miss  Herncastle,  I  forgot  to  ask 
— do  you  object  to  the  country  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  prefer  it." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  the  sooner  you  come  the  better.  We  go 
down  to  our  place  in  Sussex  next  week — you  will  find  your 
pupils  there.  Suppose  you  come  to-night — you  will  be  of  use 
to  me  in  the  intermediate  days." 

"I  will  come  to-night,  my  lady,  if  you  wish  it." 


MISS  IIERNCASTLE. 


227 


ne  lit- 
If 
IS  my 


chose 


1" 


.'I 


"  To-night,  then.  Soames,  sliow  Miss  Herncastle  out.  Now 
then,  Quccnie." 

•  •••••• 

"  And  what's  your  o|)inion  of  the  governess  ?  What  are  you 
thinking  of  as  you  lie  buck  in  that  pretty  attitude,  with  your 
eyes  half  closed.  Lady  Cecil  Clive  ?  Are  you  really  thinking;  ? 
or  is  it  only  to  show  the  length  of  your  eyelashes  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  looked  up.  They  were  rolling  along  as  fast  as 
two  high-stepping  roans  could  carry  them,  Kew-ward. 

♦'  I  was  really  thinking,  Ginevra — thinking  of  your  gover- 
ness." 

*'  You  do  my  governess  too  much  honor.  What  were  yoi*»" 
thoughts  of  her,  pray  ?  " 

"  There  is  something  strange  about  her — something  quite 
out  of  the  usual  governess  line.  It  is  an  odd  face — a  striking 
face — a  face  full  of  character.  It  has  haunted  me  ever  since  I 
saw  it — so  calm,  so  otill,  so  fixed  in  one  expression.  That 
woman  has  a  history." 

"  Really,  then,  I  shall  countermand  my  consent.  I  don't 
want  a  nursery  governess  with  a  history.  What  an  imagination 
you  have,  Cecil,  and  Nvhat  awful  nonsense  you  talk  !  A  strik- 
ing face  ! — yes,  if  you  like,  in  its  plainness." 

"  I  don't  think  it  plain." 

"  Perhaps  you  do  think  it  pretty  ?  " 

"  No  ;  pretty  is  a  word  I  should  never  apply  to  Miss  Hern- 
castle. Herncastle  ! — a  sounding  appellation.  Whom  have  I 
seen  before  that  she  resembles  ?  " 

**  For  pity's  sake,  Queenie,  talk  of  something  else.  Suppose, 
■when  you  get  down  to  Scarswood,  you  turn  biograi)her,  and 
write  out  my  new  nursery  governess's  history,  from  her  own 
dictation.  I  dare  say  she's  the  daughter  of  some  Cheapside 
grocer,  with  a  complexion  like  her  father's  tallow  candles,  and 
whose  piano-playing  and  French  accent  were  acquired  within 
the  sound  of  Bow  Bells.  Queenie — "  abruptly — "I  wonder  if 
Major  Frankland  will  be  at  Kew  to-day  ?  " 

Lady  Cecil  looked  grave. 

"I  don't  like  him,  Ginevra — I  don't  like  the  way  he  behaves 
with  you — oh,  yes,  Ginevra,  I  will  say  it — nor  the  way  you  be- 
have with  him.* 

"  And  why  ?  How  does  Major  Frankland  and  my  lowly  self 
behave  ?  " 

"  You  hardly  need  to  ask  that  question,  I  think.  You  flirted 
with  him  when  you  were  lifteen,  by  your  own  showing  \  you 


228 


MISS  HERNCASTLE. 


flirted  with  him  in  the  first  year  of  your  widowliood,  and  yon 
flirt  most  openly  with  him  now  that  you  are  a  wife,  (iincvra," 
with  energy,  "a  mairied  flirt  is  in  my  opinion  the  most  despic- 
able character  on  earth/' 

"An  opinion  which,  coming  from  my  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  of 
all  people,  should  have  weight.  Isn't  there  an  adage  about  set- 
tin'jr  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief?  How  true  those  old  saws  are  ! 
You  don't  mean  to  flirt,  I  suppose,  when  you  are  married  ?" 

"  Don't  look  so  scornful,  Ginevra — no — I  don't.  If  ever  I 
marry — what  are  you  laughing  at  ?  Well,  when  I  do  marry,  then 
• — I  hope — I  trust — I  feel  that  I  shall  respect  and — and  love  my 
husband,  and  treasure  his  name  and  honor  as  sacredly  as  my 
own  soul." 

"  Meaning,  I  suppose,  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  ?  " 

"  Meaning  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  if  you  like.  If  I  ever  be- 
come the  wife  of  Sir  Arthur,  I  shall  never  let  any  living  man 
talk  to  me,  look  at  me,  act  to  me,  as  that  odious,  bearded, 
sleepy-eyed  ex-Canadian  major  does  toward  you.  Don't  be 
angry,  Ginevra  dear  ;  I  mean  this  for  your  good." 

"  No  doubt.  One's  friends  are  always  personal  and  disagree- 
able and  prosy  for  one's  good.  At  the  same  time  I  am  quite 
old  enough  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"Ah,  Ginevra,  age  does  not  always  bring  wisdom.  And  Sir 
Peter  is  jealous — i)oor  little  Sir  Peter!  It  is  unkind,  it  is  a 
shame  ;  you  bury  that  poor  little  man  alive  down  there,  and 
you  dance,  and  walk,  and  flirt  with  Frankland.  I  say  again,  it 
is  a  shame." 

Lady  Dangerfield  leaned  back  in  the  barouche  and  laughed 
— laughed  absolutely  until  the  tears  started. 

"  You  precious  Queenie — you  Diogenes  in  India  muslin  and 
Limerick  lace!  That  poor  little  Sir  Peter,  indeed!  and  Miss 
Herncastlc.  coo  I  all  low  and  abject  things  find  favor  in  the  sight 
of  Lady  Cec'ii  Clive.  Sir  Peter  !  as  if  I  cared  what  that  odious 
little  wizen-faced,  butterfly-hunting  imbecile  thought !  Major 
I'rankland  is  one  of  my  oldest,  one  qf  my  dearest  friends,  with 
whom  I  shall  be  friendly  just  as  long  as  I  please,  in  spite  of  all 
the  husbands  alive.  And  to  think  of  a  sermon  from  you — from 
you,  the  most  notorious  flirt  in  London  —on  flirting  !  And  Solo- 
mon says  there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  !  " 

Lady  Cecil  made  a  restless  movement,  and  under  the  white 
fringe  of  her  parasol  her  fair  face  fluslicd. 

"  Ginevra,  I  am  sick — sick  of  having  m)self  called  that. 
And  I  am  not  a  flirt,  in  your  sense  of  the  word.     I  don't  lead 


\\ 


MISS  HERNCASTLE. 


22q 


d  yon 
;vra," 

ospic- 


it 


1 


on  men  to  gratify  my  own  petty  vanity,  to  swell  the  list  of  a  vain, 
empty-headed,  empty-hearted  woman  of  the  world's  triumphs. 
I  only  like  to  have  people  like  me — admire  me,  if  you  will  ; 
and  when  gentlemen  are  pleasant  and  dance  well,  and  talk 
well,  I  can't  be  frigid  and  formal,  and  talk  to  them  on  stilts. 
It's  they  who  are  stupid — moths  who  will  rush  into  the  candle 
and  singe  their  wings,  do  what  you  will.  The  warning  is  up, 
'  dangerous  ground,'  but  they  won't  be  warned.  They  think 
the  quicksand  that  has  let  so  many  through  will  hold  them. 
They  are  not  content  with  being  one's  friend — they  must  be 
one's  lover.  And  then  when  one  is  sorry,  and  says  '  no,'  they 
rush  off  to  Spitzbergen,  or  Spanish  America,  or  Central  Africa, 
and  one  is  called  heartless,  and  a  coqueite.  It's  my  misfort 
une,  Ginevra,  not  my  fault." 

Again  Ginevra  laughed. 

"My  dear,  what  eloquence  !  Why  weren't  you  lord  instead 
of  Lady  Cecil  Clive  ? — you  might  take  your  seat  in  the  House, 
and  amaze  that  noble  and  prosy  body  by  your  brilliant  oratory. 
Queenie,  answer  me  this — truly  now — were  you  ever  in  love  in 
your  life  ?" 

Under  the  white  fringe  of  that  silken  screen,  her  parasol 
once  more  that  delicate  carnation  flushed  all  the  fair  "flowei 
face  "  of  La  Reine  Blanche.     But  she  laughed. 

"  That  is  what  lawyers  call  a  leading  question,  isn't  it,  Gin- 
evra ?  Who  falls  in  love  in  these  latter  days  ?  We  talk  of 
settlements,  instead  of  turning  periods  to  our  lover's  eyes  ;  we 
go  to  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  if  an  eligible /<7r// asks  us 
to  accompany  him  there  ;  but  as  for  getting  up  a  grande  pas- 
sion— not  to  be  thought  of — bad  style  and  obsolete.  Somebody 
says  in  Coningsby,  *  passions  were  not  made  for  the  drawing- 
room,'  and  I  agree  with  that  somebody.  I  don't  mean  to  be 
cynical,  Ginevra — I  only  state  plain  facts,  and  pity  'tis  'tis 
true." 

Lady  Chantilly's  morning  party  was  doubly  pleasant  for 
being  about  the  last  of  the  season,  and  Major  Inankland  was 
there.  He  was  a  tall,  military  swell,  with  heavy  blonde  mus- 
tache, sleepy,  cat-like  eyes,  adrawl,  and  an  eye-glass.  It  seemed 
the  most  natural  thing  imaginable  that  Lady  Dangerfield  sliould 
receive  her  Neapolitan  ice  from  his  hand,  and  that  he  sho'^ld 
lean  over  her  chair  and  whisper  in  her  pretty  pink  ear  while  si  ^ 
ate  it.  • 

"We  always  return  to  our  first  loves,  don't  we.  Lady  Cecil  ?  " 
lauglied  the  Honorable  Charles  Delamer,  of  the  F.  O.,  eating 


•r 


■  fi ■'• -~"-^iit  I  -  -ii-  •'{•mmmmii-\ 


2.^.0 


M/SS  HERN  CASTLE. 


N 


'I 


R'. 


Jif 
I 


'!■  ' 


his  ice,  and  taking  his  seat  by  the  side  of  Lord  Ruysland's 
daughter,  "as  faithful  as  the  needle  to  the  north  star  is  old 
Frankland  to  the  idol  of  his  youth.  Apropos  of  first  loves, 
Lady  Cecil,"  looking  up  artlessly,  "  whom  do  you  suppose  I 
met  at  her  Majesty's  last  night  ?  " 

The  Honorable  Charles,  one  of  the  "fastest,"  most  reckless 
young  fellows  about  town,  had  two  blue  eyes  as  soft  and  inno- 
cent as  the  eyes  of  a  month-old  babe,  though  how  Mr.  Dela- 
mer  preserved  even  the  outward  semblance  of  innocence  at 
eight-and-twenty  it  would  be  difficult  to  say. 

Lady  Cecil  laughed.  She  liked  Charlie  for  this  good  reason, 
that  he  had  never  fallen  in  love  with  her. 

"  Not  being  a  clairvoyant  I  cannot  say.  You  must  have  met 
a  great  many  people  I  should  think.  I  know  you  never  came 
near  our  box." 

"  No,"  Mr.  Delamer  said,  "  I  did  not  visit  your  box.  He 
wouldn't  come." 

*'  Who  wouldn't  come  ?    Name  this  contumacious  subject  ?  " 

"O'Donnell." 

"  Who  ? "  suddenly  and  sharply  she  asked  the  question. 
"Who?" 

"O'Donnell— Captain  Redmond  O'Donnell,  of  the  Third 
Chasseurs  d'Afrique — Lc  Beau  Chasseur^  as  they  call  him — 
and  the  best  fellow  the  sun  shines  on." 

She  was  always  pale  as  a  lily — La  Reine  Blanche — was  she 
really  paler  than  usual  now?  Charlie  Delamer  wondered. 
Was  it  only  the  shadow  of  the  white  parasol,  or — 

There  was  a  pause — only  for  a  moment,  but  how  long  it 
seemed.  Coote  and  Tinney's  band  discoursed  sweet  music, 
fountains  flashed,  birds  sang,  flowers  bloomed,  June  sunshine 
steeped  all  in  gold,  and  under  the  leafy  branches  Lady  Dan- 
geriield  was  strolling  on  the  arm  oi  Major  Frankland. 

Mr.  Delamer,  just  a  thought  startled,  spoke  again. 

"  You  know  O'Donnell,  don't  you  ?  In  Ireland,  was  it  ?  I 
think  he  said  so  last  night." 

"  Yes — I  know — I  mean  I  knew  Captain  O'Donnell  slightly 
once.  It  is  over  six  years  ago  though — I  should  have  thought 
he  would  have  quite  forgotten  the  circumstance  by  this  time." 

"  Men  who  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  know  La  Reine 
Blanche  don't  forget  her  so  easily.  Since  you  honor  him  by 
your  remembrance,  it  is  hardly  strange  if  he  recollects  j'^z^." 

"If  I  remember  him! — Mr.  Delamer,  Redmond  O'Donnell 
saved  n^y  life  ! " 


;i 


1 


MISS  HERNCASTLE. 


231 


slar.d's 

is  old 

loves, 

[pose  I 

^ckless 

|1  iiino- 

Dela- 

Ince  at 

reason, 


"  Saved  your  life  !  By  Jove  !  the  lucky  fellow.  But  those 
dashing,  long-sword,  saddle-bridle  Irishmen  are  always  lucky. 
And  the  fellow  said  his  acquaintance  was  but  trifling." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed — not  quite  so  musically  as  usual. 

"Trifling!"  Perhaps  Captain  O'Donnell  rated  his  service 
at  the  valuation  of  the  thing  saved !  And  he  is  in  England. 
How  curious.  I  fancied  hiin — soldier  of  fortune — free  lance 
that  he  is !  for  life  out  there  in  Algiers." 

"  He  goes  back  shortly.  He  is  a  born  fighter,  and  comes  of 
a  soldierly  race.  The  O'Donnells  have  been  soldiers  of  fortune 
for  the  last  three  hundred  years,  and  asked  no  fairer  fate.  He 
leaves  England  soon,  places  his  sister  with  some  friends  in 
France,  and  goes  back." 

"  His  sister ! — the  Rose,  of  whom  he  used  to  speak — of 
whom  he  was  so  fond?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  heard  him  call  her  Rose." 

"  You  heard  him  !  She  is  here  then  !  And  what  is  she  like  ? 
Redmond  O'Donnell's  sister" — with  a  little  laugh — "  ought  to 
be  pretty." 

"  Well,  she  is  iot-  -at  least  not  now.  She  appears  to  be 
under  a  cloud — siv,kness,  trouble,  something — didn't  talk  much 
— looks  sad  and  soml^er,  and  is  a  brunette,  with  blue  eyes.. 
She  is  just  from  New  Orleans — her  brother  went  for  her.  I 
called  there  immediately  before  I  came  here,  and  O'Donnell 
dines  with  me  this-  evening.  What  a  prince  of  good  fellows  he 
was  out  yonder  in  Algiers,  and  the  devil's  own  to  fight.  He 
won  his  way  straight  up  from  the  ranks  with  his  sword.  And 
he  saved  your  life  !     How  was  it.  Lady  Cecil  ?" 

"  Much  too  long  a  story  for  a  morning  party,  with  the  ther- 
mometer at  90  degrees.  There  is  Madame  de  Villafleur  beck- 
oning— is  she  not?" 

*'  She  is.  Permit  me.  Lady  Cecil."  And  taking  Mr.  Dela- 
mer's  proffered  arm,  Lady  Cecil  sauntered  over  to  Madame 
la  Comtesse  de  Villafleur. 

The  rose  light  of  the  summer  sunset  was  just  merging  into 
starry  dusk,  as  the  baronet's  wife  and  earl's  daughter  drove  back 
to  Lowndes  Square.  Lady  Dangerfield  was  in  excellent  spirits — 
evidently  Major  Frankland  had  been  entertaining — and  talked 
incessantly  the  way  home  ;  but  Lady  Cecil  lay  back  among  the 
barouche  cushions,  paler,  graver,  more  silent  than  was  her 
wont.  She»  had  been  very  much  admired,  as  usual ;  she  had 
held  her  court  of  adorers,  also,  as  usual ;  but  now  that  it  was 
over,  she  looked  wan,  spiritless,  and  bored. 


.    ..  '  .  ^^^-.U.^^^A.^t^.    . 


mitetg.''3f^~^v< 


232 


A//SS  IIERNCASTLE. 


<< 


And  he  is  in  England — in  London  ! "  she  was  thinking. 
"  He  was  at  the  opera  last  night,  and  saw  nie  !  And  it  was 
not  worth  while  renewing  so  slight  an  acquaintance  !  To 
think — to  think  " — she  set  her  pearly  teeth  hard — "  to  think 
that  after  all  those  years  I  should  not  yet  have  outlived  that 
sentimental,  folly  of  so  long  ago  ! " 

How  stupid  you  are,  Queenie  ! "  her  cousin  said,  pettishly, 
as  they  neared  home.  "  I  believe  you  have  not  spoken  two 
words  since  we  left  Kew ;  and  now  that  I  have  asked  you 
twice  if  you  saw  Chandos  Howard  playing  lawn  bilHards  with 
Lady  Charlotte  Lansing,  you  only  answer,  'Yes  dear,  very 
])retty  indeed  ! '  It  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  recover  the  use  of 
your  tongue  and  your  senses  before  you  appear  at  Carlton 
Terrace  to-night." 

With  which  reproach  Lady  Dangerfield  got  out  and  went  up 
the  steps  of  her  own  aristocratic  mansion. 

Soames,  the  footman,  flung  open  the  drawing-room  door,  but 
Lady  Cecil  did  not  enter.  She  toiled  wearily  up  to  her  own 
apartment,  threw  off  her  bonnet  and  scarf,  as  if  even  their 
weight  oppressed  her,  and  crossing  to  the  gold-and-ebony  writ- 
ing desk,  unlocked  it,  and  took  out  her  treasured  relics  once 
<  more. 

"  I  do  not  need  you  to  remind  me  of  my  folly  any  longer," 
she  said,  looking  at  them.  "  I  will  do  now  what  1  should  have 
done  this  morning." 

The  faintly  sighing  evening  wind  fluttered  the  lace  curtains 
of  the  open  window.  She  walked  to  it,  gazed  for  a  moment  at 
the  pictured  face,  set  her  lips,  and  deliberately  tore  up  into 
minutest  fragments  the  note  and  the  picture.  The  summer 
breeze  whirled  them  off  in  an  instant,  the  spray  of  clematis, 
and  the  dark  curl  of  hair  followed,  and  then  Lady  Cecil  rang 
for  her  maid,  and  dressed  for  the  evening. 

"  They  say — those  wiseacres  who  make  books — that  every 
life  has  its  romance.  I  suppose  they  are  right,  and  so  forever 
has  ended  mine.  Not  the  white  satin  to-night,  Desir^e — the 
blue  silk  and  turquoise  ornaments,  I  think  !  " 

At  half-past  eleven  that  night — and  when  hj.d  the  ])henome- 
non  occurred  before  ? — the  Earl  of  Ruysland  returned  to  his 
niece's  house,  He  had  written  and  dispatched  his  letter,  and 
though  Lady  Cecil  had  sent  no  message  to  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genna,  the  letter  contained  a  most  encouraging  and  flatt'^mg 
one.  He  had  dined  at  his  club,  he  had  indulged  in  c'  icken 
hazard  for  an  hour,  and  at  half  past  eleven  stood  in  the  moon- 


MISS  IIERNCASTLE. 


233 


king. 


you 
with 


.. 


light  at  Lady  Dangerfield's  door.     He  had  been  up,  as  you 
know,  until  half-past  five  the  ]ireceding  day,  and  on  the  win 
try  side  of  fifty  late  hours  and  dissipation  tell. 

"I  think  I  will  give  up  London  life,"  he  said  to  ftimself ; 
"  and  devote  myself  to  growing  old  "racefully.  Let  me  ac- 
complish this  marriage,  pay  my  debts,  and  with  replenished 
ceffers,  and  a  rejuvenated  reputation,  betake  myself  to  pleasanc 
Continental  Spas  and  Badens,  and  live  happy  forever  after. 
Ah,  Soames !  my  lady  and  Lady  Cecil  departed  yet  for  the 
ball  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  me  lord — dressing,  me  lord — carriage  has  just 
been  ordered  round,  me  lord." 

Lord  Ruysland  ascended  to^the  silent  magnificence  of  the 
long  drawing-roorns.  There  were  three,  opening  one  into  the 
other,  in  a  brilliant  vista  of  velvet  carpet,  lace  draperies,  or- 
molu, and  satin  upholstery.  They  were  deserted  now,  and  the 
yas  unlit.  The  range  of  windows,  seven  in  number,  stood  widt 
open,  and  the  silvery  light  of  the  resplendent  June  moon 
poured  in. 

"  Silence  and  solitude,"  muttered  the  earl ;  "why  the  deuce 
are  they  all  in  the  dark  ?  Aw !  very  pretty,  indeed,  brilliant 
moon,  and  a  cloudless  sky — one  might  fancy  it  Venice  instead 
of  smoky,  fogg}',  dingy  London." 

He  paused.  The  rooms  were  not  deserted,  it  would  seem, 
after  all.  Out  of  the  lace  and  amber  curtains  of  the  seventh 
and  farthest  window,  a  figure  emerged  and  approached  him. 
The  earl's  eyes  turned  from  that  crystal  moon,  and  fixed  expect- 
antly on  the  advancing  figure — the  figure  of  a  woman.  Who 
was  it  ?  Not  a  servant,  surely,  with  that  slow  and  stately  tread, 
that  assured  air.  Not  little  Lady  Dangerfield— this  figure  was 
tall ;  iioL  Lady  Cecil  either — even  she  must  have  stood  a  full 
head  shorter  than  this  woman.     Who  was  it  ? 

The  long  drawing-room  lay  in  alternate  strips  of  darkness 
and  light.  The  shadows  hid  her  for  a  moment,  she  emerged 
into  the  nioonrays  again,  and  again  disappeared.  Who  was  she 
— this  tall,  magnificently  proportioned  woman,  in  dark  sweep- 
ing drapery,  with  that  majestic  stateliness  of  mien  and  walk? 

She  had  not  seen  him.  For  the  fourth  time  she  came  into 
the  light,  then  the  darkness  took  her — a  fifth  time  she  appeared, 
a  sixth,  and  then  she  beheld  the  earl  standing  curious,  expect- 
ant, watching. 

She  stopped  short — the  moonlight  fell  full  upon  her  face — pale 
and  calm.     And  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  who  for  the  last  thirty 


234 


Jl/ISS  IIERNCASTLE. 


\i 


%. 


I 


years  had  outlived  every  phase  of  human  emotion,  uttep'd 
a  low,  worldless  cry,  and  fell  slowly  back.  The  sound  of 
that  startled  cry,  low  as  it  was,  reached  lier  ear.  The  woman 
in  the  moonlight  came  a  step  nearer  and  spoke : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  should  not  have  intruded,  but  I 
thought  these  rooms  were  quite  deserted." 

What  a  sweet  voice  it  was !  Its  tones  lingered  pleasantly 
on  the  ear,  like  the  low  notes  of  a  flute. 

Her  words  broke  the  ?>\)q\\  that  held  the  earl.  His  eyes  had 
been  fixed  with  a  sort  of  fascination  on  her  face — a  look  of 
startled  wonder  on  his  own.  And  Raoul,  Earl  of  Ruysland, 
was  not  easily  startled.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  stood 
aside  to  let  her  pass. 

"  It  is  I  who  should  apologize,"  he  said,  with  the  courtly  def«.  r- 
ence  to  all  women  that  long  habit  had  made  second  nature, 
*'  for  startling  you  in  so  absurd  a  manner.  I  labored  under  the 
same  delusion  as  youiself.  I  fancied  these  rooms  forsaken. 
Soames  !  lights  immediately  !  " 

The  tall  footman  set  the  chandeliers  ablaze,  and  closed  the 
curtains.     But  the  dark-draped  lady  had  vanished. 

"  Who  was  that  ?  "  the  earl  asked  carelessly ;  "  a  visitor  !  " 

"The  gov'ness,  me  lord.  Me  lady's  new  nuss'ry  gov'ness. 
Came  two  hours  ago,  me  lord,  which  her  name  it's  Miss  'Ern- 
castle." 

"  Is  the  carriage  waiting,  Soames  ?  "  inquired  my  lady,  sail- 
ing in  a  sea  of  green  silk  and  tulle  illusion,  iUuminated  with 
emeralds.  *^  You,  Uncle  Raoul,;  and  at  half-past  seven  I 
What  miracle  will  hapjjen  next?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
are  coming  with  Cecil  and  me  to  the  Duchess  of  Stratheam's 
soiree  mnsicale  ?  " 

"  I  don't,  indeed.  Nothing  is  further  from  my  thoughts  than 
soirees  viusicales.  Ginevra,  who  is  that  new  governess  of  yours  ? 
She  is  your  governess,  Soames  tells  me." 

*'  What !     Miss  Herncastle  !  where  did  you  see  her?" 

"I  saw  her  just  now,  as  I  came  in.  She's  a  very  distin- 
guished-looking person,  isn't  she?  Nursery  governesses  don't 
vsually  look  like  tragedy  queens,  do  they?  She  has  a  very 
remarkable  face." 

"  Has  she  ?  You  are  as  enthusiastic  as  Queenie.  She  saw 
her  at  noon,  and  raved  about  her  for  half  an  hour.  I  must  be 
very  blind  or  sm[)id — I  confess  I  can  only  see  a  preposterously 
tall  young  woman,  with  a  pale,  solemn  face." 

"  Enthusiastic,  am  I  ?  "  Lord  Ruysland  repeated,    "  I  wasn't 


SIR  ARTHUR   TREGENNA. 


itter'id 
ind  of 
voman 

but  I 

isantly 


235 


aware  that  I  was  ;  but  I  once  knew  another  face  very  like  it — 
wonderfully  like  it.  And  I  give  yon  my  word  of  honor  that  a3 
I  came  upon  Miss — ah,  to  be  sure — Herncastle,  standing  there 
in  the  moonlight,  I  thought  1 


saw  a  ghost." 


CHAPTER  III. 


SIR  ARTHUR  TREGENNA. 


AR  away,  along  the  north  coast  of  Cornwall,  not  far 
from  "  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude  and  Boss,"  there 
stands  a  huge  pile  of  masonry,  looking  old  enough  and 
hoary  enough  to  have  been  built  by  the  hands  of  the 
Druids,  and  called  Tregenna  Towers.  Its  lofty  battlemented 
circular  towers  pierced  the  blue  air  at  a  dizzy  height — its  beacon 
a  land-mark  fifteen  miles  up  and  down  the  coast.  From  its 
sea  wall  you  look  sheer  down  three  hundred  feet  of  black  and 
slaty  cliffs  into  the  white  surging  sea  below.  And  to  the  right, 
three  miles  off,  lying  in  a  warm,  green  hollow,  is  Tregenna  vil- 
lage, with  its  ivied  church  and  vicarage,  its  clusters  of  stone  cot- 
tages, with  roses,  myrtle,  and  fuchsias  blooming  out-of-doors  the 
year  round.  Gray,  lonely,  weather-beaten  Tregenna  Towers 
stands,  with  the  steady  sea  gale  howling  around  it,  miles  of 
foam-white  sea,  and  a  low,  dusk,  fast-drifting  sky  over  all. 
Right  and  left  as  far  as  you  can  see,  and  farther,  spread  moors, 
and  mines,  and  fisheries,  all  claiming  for  their  lord  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna,  twelfth  baronet  of  his  line,  and  one  of  the  very 
wealthiest  in  the  United  Kingdom.  You  may  wander  on  for 
miles  over  those  purple  ridgy  moors.  You  may  ask  the  brown 
fishermen  or  the  black  miners  wherever  you  meet  them,  and 
the  answer  will  still  be  the  same — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  lord 
of  all. 

Only  once  in  seven  long  years  has  the  master's  footstep 
rung  through  the  gray,  lonesome  rooms  of  Tregenna.  He  is  a 
wanderer  over  the  earth  from  the  North  Sea  to  Oceanica. 
Since  his  father's  death,  ten  years  before,  when  he  was  three- 
and-twcnty,  Tregenna  has  seen  but  little  of  him — England, 
either,  for  that  matter.  And  still  with  loving  fidelity  the  old 
servants,  the  old  tenants  and  retainers  look  forward  to  the  day 


i- 


236 


SIR  ARTHUR   TREGENNA, 


1  i 


when  Sir  Arthur  will  bring  a  bride  to  old  Trcgenna,  and  renew 
its  ancient  si)lendors.  For  they  love  him  very  dearly.  The 
gendest  of  masters,  the  most  Christian  of  gentlemen,  the  kind- 
est of  landlords — that  is  what  they  will  tell  you  oi"  him.  He 
might  have  been  one  of  good  King  Arthur's  knights,  so  stainless 
a  record,  so  high  a  code  of  honor,  so  unblemished  a  life  lay 
behind  him.  He  had  loved  his  father  vi'ith  a  rare  and  great 
love,  and  upon  that  father's  death  had  gone  abroad,  and  been 
an  exile  and  a  wanderer  since. 

On  the  second  day  of  July,  among  the  passengers  who  ar- 
rived at  the  London  bridge  terminus,  straight  from  Tasmania, 
was  Arthur  Tregenna.  His  luggage  was  scant,  there  was  noth- 
ing about  him  to  betoken  the  owner  of  fabulous  wealth,  and  he 
drove  at  once  to  a  certain  old-fashioned  West  End  hotel,  that 
his  family  had  used  for  generations.  He  dined,  dressed,  and 
drove  to  Lowndes  Square.  But  the  shutters  of  that  aristocratic 
mansion  were  closed,  the  furniture  gone  into  Holland  shrouds, 
and  an  old  woman  in  pattens,  who  oi)ened  the  door,  informed 
him  that  the  flimily  had  left  only  that  very  morning,  for  Sussex. 

"Then  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  follow,"  Sir  Arthur 
thought.  "  It  is  due  to  her — to  my  promise.  I  shall  go  down 
to-morrow." 

He  went  back  to  his  hotel  in  the  silvery  summer  dusk.  Lon- 
don seemed  nevv  to  him  after  years  of  wandering  through  Can- 
adian wildernesses,  Mexican  tropics,  Indian  jungles  and  Amer- 
ican prairies  ;  its  roaring,  surging,  ceaseless  Babel  stunned  him. 
He  sat  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  open  window,  the  last  pink  flush 
of  the  dying  day  upon  him,  and  a  thoughtful  gravity  habitual  to 
it  lying  upon  his  face. 

lie  was  a  very  tall,  very  fair  man,  this  Cornish  baronet,  with 
dee[)  set  gray  eyes,  close-cropped  blonde  hair,  blonde  whiskers, 
and  —not  handsome.  The  face  of  a  sunburnt  student,  perhaps, 
never  liiat  of  a  handsome  man — a  face  that  could  set  itself  stern 
as  death,  a  face  at  once  proud  and  grave,  but  a  face  that  men 
might  trust  and  woman  love,  for  all  that.  A  face  that  lit  into 
wonderful  warmth  and  geniality  when  he  smiled,  but  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna  did  not  smile  often. 

The  thoughtful  gravity  of  his  face  was  a  shade  graver  even 
than  usual  this  soft  summer  evening  as  he  sat  here  alone.  His 
eyes  looked  wearily  over  the  surging  sea  of  strange  faces,  with 
something  of  a  tired,  lonely  light. 

"  Nine-and-twenty,"  he  was  thinking,  "  and  I  feel  as  alone  in 
England  this  first  day  of  my  return  as  though  I  l^d  never  set 


Sm  ARTHUR   TREGENNA. 


renew 
The 
kind- 
He 
inless 
fe  lay 
great 
been 


237 


foot  in  it  before.  It  is  time  I  gavo  uj)  this  Bedouin  sort  of  life, 
this  wandering,  gii)syish,  vagabond  kind  of  existence  and  tanger, 
as  our  lively  French  neighjjors  phrase  it,  and  settle  down  to 
civilized  life.  And  yet — I  don't  know — the  normal  life  suits 
me  after  all,  and  I  may  be  glad  to  return  to  it.  If  I  find  her 
as  I  half  expect  to  find  her,  I  most  assuredly  shall.  A  London 
coquette  is  no  wife  for  a  plain,  practical  man  like  me.  And  J 
want  a  w^ife,  not  a  butterlly. 


"  'Who  would  live  with  a  doll,  though  its  hair  should  be  dressed 
And  its  putdcoats  trimmed  in  the  fashion  ? ' 


"A  London  belle  of  three  years'  standing  and  a  flirt — no  such 
woman  as  that  is  hardly  likely  to  be  a  wife  of  mine  or  mistress 
of  Tregenna.  But  it  was  my  father's  wish  that  at  least  i  should 
marry  no  one  before  seeing  her,  and  every  wish  of  his  is  sacred. 
It  is  surprising,  though,  that  she  remains  single  still — with  all 
that  beauty  and  grace  and  fatal  witchery  they  say  she  possesses. 
Many  men  have  offered,  but  she  has  refused  all — men  with 
rank  and  power  and  wealth." 

For  Sir  Arthur  had-  returned  home  on  most  matrimonial 
thoughts  intent.  His  late  father  and  the  present  Earl  of  Ruys- 
land,  dissiujilar  in  many  things,  were  yet  close  friends  and 
comrades.  The  plain  Cornish  baronet  had  been  dazzled  by  the 
more  brilliant  peer,  and  when  that  peer  fell  into  poverty,  his 
purse  and  sympathy  were  ever  at  his  service.  And  one  having 
an  only  son,  the  other  an  only  daughter,  what  more  natural 
than  that  they  should  sink  their  bond  of  friendship  in  the  closer 
bond  of  relationshi|). 

Old  Sir  John  had  loved  and  admired  little  Lady  Cecil,  next 
to  his  boy,  above  all  earthly  things.  Her  fair  face  and  golden 
ringlets,  and  brown,  luminous  eyes  made  sunshine  often  in  the 
dim,  dusky-storied  old  rooms  of  Tregenna,  her  clear  girl's  tones, 
the  sweetest  music.  She  had  not  met  young  Arthui  on  these 
visits,  he  had  been  up  at  Oxford.  Casually,  however,  once  or 
twice  they  had  come  together.  But  somehow  the  friendship  of 
the  fathers  was  not  reproduced  in  the  children.  Little  Lady 
Cecil  in  her  white  frocks  and  blue  sashes,  her  flowing  curls,  and 
dancing  eyes,  was  but  a  frivolous,  tiresome  child  in  the  pedantic 
gaze  of  the  tall,  Greek-speaking,  Latin-loving  under-grad  ;  while 
this  uplifted,  severe,  silent  young  Oxonian  was  an  object  of  awe 
and  terror  to  the  earl's  daughter.  But  Sir  John  died,  and  on  his 
death-bed  he  had  asked  his  son,  stricken  with  grief,  to  make,  if 


238 


SIR  ARTHUR    TREGENNA. 


U-    ; 


ho  could  win  her  consent,  Lady  Cecil  Clivc  the  future  mistress 
of  Trc'gcnna. 

•  "  You  will  love  her,"  the  old  man  had  said  ;  "who  coidd  help 
it?  She  is  as  beautiful  as  the  day,  and  as  good  as  she  is  beau- 
tifid.  No  one  lives  whom  I  would  as  soon  see  your  wife  as  my 
old  friend's  child." 

Arthur  had  given  his  promise,  and  when  did  a  Tregenna  ever 
bieak  his  word  to  a  friend  or  foe  ?  He  went  abroad  then,  and 
for  three  years  remained  abroad.  Lady  Cecil  was  in  her  nine- 
teenth year  upon  his  return,  and  it  was  her  tirst  season,  death  in 
the  family  having  kept  her  back.  They  met  in  that  gay,  graci- 
ous, brilliant,  Mayfair  world,  and  he  began  to  realize  that  Lady 
Cecil  Clive  waj  by  no  means  the  woman  of  women  he  wished 
to  take  to  wife. 

She  was  lovely — no  doubt  of  that — sweet,  gentle,  pure,  and 
proud.  But  she  loved  admiration — many  men  sought  her, 
pressed  forward  eagerly  in  the  chase,  and  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 
stood  in  the  background  and  saw  her  smile  upon  them  all  ;  very 
few  of  those  smiles  were  for  him.  She  had  heard  nothing  of 
that  death-bed  compact,  and  her  father  chanced  to  be  absent 
from  England  that  first  season.  Before  it  had  ended  Sir  Arthur 
had  manned  his  yacht,  and  set  out  for  the  Mediterranean. 

And  now  after  three  years  he  was  back,  and  on  the  same 
errand.  One  last  effort  he  would  make  to  obey  his  father  ;  if 
he  found  her  the  sort  of  woman  he  half  suspected,  then  she 
should  never  be  wife  of  his. 

Two  men  Avere  talking  near  him  as  he  sat  lost  in  thought. 
Their  conversation  fell  on  his  ear — they  did  not  seem  to  heed 
him — and  lost  in  his  own  reverie  he  did  not  comprehend  a 
word. 

"  Left  this  morning,  did  you  say,  Wyatt  ?  "  one  of  them  was 
saying.  '*  Somewhere  down  in  Sussex,  is  it?  Then  I  shall  not 
go  to  the  Clarges  Street  reception  to-night.  London  is  a  howl- 
ing wilderness  without  her.  The  sun  shines  on  nothing  half  so 
lu   jly  as  La  Reinc  Blanche.''^ 

"  So  poor  Buccleth  used  to  say  until  she  refused,  and  sent 
hiui  headlong  to  perdition.  It's  a  curious  fact  in  natural  ]ihi- 
losoi)hy  that  all  the  men  who  lose  their  heads  for  the  White 
Queen  go  straight  to  the  bad  after  it.  Poor  she  is  as  a  church 
mouse,  and  yet  I  believe  she  has  rejected  more  proi)osals  this 
season  than  the  Duke  of  Belviour's  daughter  herself,  with  hei 
beauty,  her  blood,  and  her  s|)lendid  dof.  What  do  you  suppose 
she  is  waiting  for — a  ducal  coronet  ?" 


1 


Sm  ARTHUR    TREGENNA, 


239 


-^ 


.*m- 


"Old  Ruys  is  an  inscrutable  card,  and  there's  some  one  in 
the  background,  depend  upon  ii.  W.isii't  there  a  whisper  at 
Pratt's  of  an  enormously  rich  Cornishnian  for  whom  the  old  bird 
is  reserving  her.  She  is  charming — La  Rcine  Blanche — and 
nothing  under  thirty  thousand  a  year  stands  any  chance  there. 

"  '  Praise  as  we  may  when  the  tale  is  done, 
Siie  is  but  a  maid  to  be  wooed  and  won.' " 

"  I  envy  the  Cornishman,  whoever  he  is." 

"His  name  is  Tregenna — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — worth  no 
end  in  tin  nu'nes  and  fisheries  and  that,  but  a  deuce  of  a  prig, 
so  I  am  told." 

The  next  instant  the  two  young  dandies  were  startled  by  the 
tall,  sunburned,  silent  gentleman  in  the  arm-chair  rising  up  and 
facing  them. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in  haughty  surprise ;  **  I  am 
that  deuce  of  a  prig — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  Had  I  known  I  was 
the  subject  of  your  conversation  I  would  have  interrupted  you 
sooner.  And  you  scarcely  honor  the  name  of  the  lady  you 
praise  by  making  it  the  public  property  of  a  coffee-room." 

With  which,  and  a  frown  of  haughty  anger,  the  tall,  tanned 
gentleman  stalked  away,  leaving  the  two  friends  aghast. 

**(iad  !  "  Wyatt  said  ;  "  and  that's  Tregenna — like  a  rencon- 
tre on  the  stage  where  the  hero,  supposed  to  be  at  the  antipodes, 
turns  up  at  a  minute's  notice.  I  took  him  to  be  a  sailor,  mer- 
chant captain,  or  something  of  that  sort.  Has  his  arrival,  I 
wonder,  anything  to  do  with  the  little  Clive's  flight  Tom  Lon- 
don ?  " 

More  and  more  dissatisfied,  the  young  baronet  left  the  room 
and  the  hotel. 

And  this  was  the  girl  he  had  come  home  to  marry — a  flirt 
who  drew  men  only  to  refuse  them  and  send  them  to  perdition, 
as  that  perfiuned  puppy  in  the  coffee-room  phrased  it — a  fair 
and  fatal  Circe,  born  to  work  evil  and  destruction  on  earth. 

"I  shall  go  down  and  see  for  myself,"  he  thought,  sternly; 
"  that  at  least  my  promise  binds  me  to,  but  no  hardened  co- 
quette shall  ever  be  wife  of  mine.  If  I  find  Lady  Cecil  Clive 
what  I  know  I  shall,  I  will  leave  England  again  within  a  week, 
and  try  once  more  the  plains  of  Texas,  the  buff'alo,  and  the 
Indians.  I  will  take  some  dusky  woman  ;  she  shall  rear  my 
savage  brood.  Well,  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  perhaps — I'm 
not  in  love,  and  the  fellow  in  Locksley  Hall  was — but  I'll  go  to 
my  grave  alone,  and  Tregenna  shall  pass  to  the  next-of-kin, 


240 


AT  scarswood: 


sooner  than  marry  a  woman  of  the  workl  who  is  a  woman  of 
the  workl  and  no  more.  How  lightly  those  ilippant  fops  took 
her  name  on  their  lips.  And  my  poor  father  believed  her  an 
angel  because  she  had  an  angel  face.  It's  enough  to  make  a 
man  forswear  the  sex." 


CHAPTER   IV. 


AT     SCARSWOOD. 


■  I 


ATE  in  the  afternoon  of  that  sunny  June  day,  at  the 
very  hour  indeed  in  which  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  sat 
listening  to  Wyatt  and  his  companion  in  the  coffee- 
room  of  his  hotel,  Lady  Dangerfield,  her  uncle,  cousin, 
governess,  servants,  etc. — an  imposing  procession — arrived  from 
London  at  Scars  wood  Park. 

Scarsvvood  !  With  the  rose  flush  of  the  setting  sun  upon  ii, 
vith  the  glades,  the  lawns,  the  shrubberies  steeped  in  gold,  with 
the  stone  urns  on  the  stone  terraces  turned  to  burnished  silver, 
the  starlet  roses  like  sparks  of  fire,  every  leaf  of  the  cop[)er 
beeches  blood-red  rubies,  the  windows  glancing  through  the 
trees  like  sheets  of  burnished  gold,  Scarsvvood  Park  and  the 
turreted  old  mansion  came  upon  them — a  marvelously  fair  pict- 
ure. Trackless  depths  of  fern  waved  away  and  away,  the  great 
fish-pond  spread  out  like  a  silver  mirror.  Landscape  gardeners 
under  my  lady's  orders  had  done  their  work  :  the  parterres, 
the  tropic  bloom,  the  wealth  of  myrtle  and  mignonette,  of  roses 
and  geraniums,  were  like  unto  some  modern  garden  of  Eden. 

"  !I()W  lovely — what  a  magnificent  old  place  !  "  Lady  Cecil 
-exclaimed  ;  "  and  you  call  it  dull  as  death,  as  dismal  as  a  tomb, 
Ciinev  J  a  !  " 

It  was  her  first  \  isit  to  the  ancestral  home  of  her  cousin's 
-  ch  h  isband,  and  n  h-"  heart  of  hearts  the  belle  of  London 
,  i.ivly  loved  the  country. 

Lads'  Dangerfield  glanced  around  her  with  a  little  sour  air. 

"  So  it  was,  so  ii  is»  so  k  wdl  be — if  I  let  it.  Why  can't  the 
iondon  season  last  ftjrever?  I  like  n  ral  life  ard  rustic  scenes 
il»jjictures — in  real  life  jjive  me  Bel^'     lo,  year  m  year  out." 


jj> 


AT  SCARS IVOOD. 


241 


air. 


"  And  balls,  soirees,  operas,  drawing-rooms,  and  drives — the 
old,  weary,  treadniill,  tircsoine,  endless  round.  You  are  fear- 
fully anil  wonderfully  vital,  (lim-vra,  and  stn.id  the  wear  and 
tear  well ;  but  if  these  lillle  breathing  spaces  did  not  come  even 
you  would  have  to  go  under  speedily.  For  myself  six  weeks  of 
London,  if  you  will,  four  of  I'aris,  and  the  rest  of  the  year  in 
just  such  a  dear  old  country  house  as  this,  half  a  dozen  nice 
]K'ople  to  live  with,  one's  country  neighbors  to  visit,  and  Airs. 
Grundy  forgotten." 

"•Well,  my  dear,  you  shall  have  all  that  pnd  more,  when  you 
are  I.ady  Tregenna.  Tregenna  Towers  is  .s  old  again  as  Scars- 
wood,  and  twice  as  truly  rural.  Is  that  my  lord  and  master  I 
see  on  the  portico  steps  ?  Really  he  shrivels  up  and  grows 
smaller  with  every  passing  day  !  And  here  come  Pearl  and 
Pansy  flying  down  the  steps  like  little  wild  Indians.  Miss 
Ilerncastle,  what  do  you  think  of  your  future  home  and  your 
future  pupils?" 

The  governess,  in  charge  of  my  lady's  fat  King  Charles,  had 
taken  the  third  seat  in  the  carriage.  The  earl  had  not  driven 
with  the  ladies  from  the  station.  Miss  Herncastle's  large  calm 
eyes  had  been  taking  in  everything,  and  Miss  Herncastle's 
calm  tones  replied : 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  place,  my  lady.  But  I  have  seen  Scarswood 
before." 

"  Indeed  !  This  is  not  your  first  visit  to  Sussex,  then  ?  Was 
it  in  Sir  Peter's  time,  or  before  ?  Pansy — Pearl !  Little 
wretches,  do  you  want  to  run  under  the  carriage  wheels  ? 
Stand  back  and  be  still !  Sir  Peter,  how  stupid  of  }0u  to  let 
those  children  run  wild  in  this  boisterous  manner  !" 

It  was  my  lady's  first  greeting  to  her  husband  as  she  was 
assisted  out.  Sir  Peter  had  come  down  the  steps  to  meet  her  ; 
she  gave  him  two  gloved  fingers,  then  gave  the  twins  first  a 
shake,  then  a  kiss.  The  little  nine-year-olds  were  miniatures 
of  herself — the  same  round,  black  eyes,  the  same  crisp,  black 
hair,  the  same  petite  features  and  proportions,  and  so  mucli, 
also,  like  one  another  that  it  seemed  impossible  at  first  glance 
to  tell  them  apart. 

"  You  disobedient  little  midgets  !  "  their  mamma  said,  "  how 
often  have  I  told  you  not  to  rush  to  meet  any  one  in  that  hoy- 
denish  way  ?     What  is  your  maid  thinking  of  to  let  you  ?  " 

"'Twasn't  Susan's  fault,  mamma,"  piped  one  black-eyed  twin. 
"  She  told  me  to  stay  in  the  nursery,  but  me  and  Pansy  saw  the 
carriage,  and  you  and  Auntie  Cecil,  from  the  window,  and  we 
11 


242 


AT  SCAPSWOOD. 


It  '  ■* 


couldn't  stay.  We're  awful  glad  you've  come,  Auntie.  Our 
dolls  haven't  got  a  summer  dress  to  their  backs." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  and  kissed  the  twins.  Children  always 
fell  in  love  with  her  at  sight. 

"  Not  a  summer  dress  to  their  'uacks,  Pearl,  and  the  season 
so  far  advanced !  A  harrowing  case,  which  must  be  attended 
to  immediately.  Sir  Peter,  will  you  indorse  Pearl's  welcome, 
and  say  you  are  glad  to  see  me  likcvise?" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  ^mile  that  thawed  even  the 
frozen  nature  cf  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield.  To  be  glad  to  see  any 
one  who  was  a  visitor  and  daily  expense  was  not  in  his  nature, 
but  as  such  things  had  to  be  under  the  rule  of  his  very  much 
better  half,  he  shook  Lady  Cecil's  delicate  gray  glove,  and  said 
something  about  his  pleasure  in  welcoming  iier  to  Scarswood. 

"And  Scarswood  is  a  home  to  be  proud  of,"  Lady  Cecil  said 
— "  my  idea  of  an  earthly  i">aradise,  as  1  told  Ginevra  coming 
up.  Papa  stayed  behind,  Sir  Peter,  talking  to  a  f};iend — he  will 
be  here  for  dinner.  Permit  me — Miss  Herncastle,  Sir  Peter. 
Ah,  Pansy  I  ah,  Pearl  I  No  more  dolls  and  dress-making. 
Here  is  a  lady  come  all  the  v;ay  from  London  to  train  you  in 
the  way  you  should  go." 

The  twins  fixed  four  big,  bright,  black  eyes  full  on  the  new 
governess.  Sir  Peter  bowed — the  governess  was  at  some  little 
distance — then  slopped,  put  up  his  L,ye-glass,  and  stared  again. 
The  governess  came  a  step  nearer,  fixed  her  eyes  upon  nis  face, 
made  a  graceful  obeisance,  and  turned  to  her  pupils. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  kiss,  my  dear  ?  You  are  Pansy,  are  you 
not? — you  Pearl?  Ah!  1  thought  I  could  tell  the  difference, 
though  you  are  so  much  alike." 

"  1  trust,  Sir  Peter,  you  saw  that  the  upholsterers  fitted  up  the 
drawing  and  dining-rooms  according  to  my  orders  ?  Have  the 
pictures  ar — "  She  stopped  short.  "  Good  gracious,  Queenie  ! 
what  is  that  man  staring  at?     Sir  Peter  ! " 

He  never  heard  her.  His  eyes  behind  his  double  eye-glass 
were  fixed  upon  Miss  Herncastle  :  his  face  had  turned  to  a  dull 
yellow  pallor  from  brow  to  chin.  His  wife  stood  and  stared  at 
him  aghast. 

"•  For  Heaven's  sake,  look  at  him,  Queenie  !  Is  he  going  to 
have  a  fit,  or — Sir  Peter  Dangerfield.  wli;it  on  earth  are  you 
agape  at  ?  " 

Siie  caught  his  arm  impatiently,  and  gave  intn  no  ij^entie  shake. 

"  He's  staring  at  you,  Miss  Herncastle  *i'»^  is  tl^o  luafte/ 
with  him?" 


N. 


w 


AT  SCARSWOOD. 


243 


ie.     Our 

;n  always 

le  season 

attended 

welcome, 

even  the 
o  see  any 
is  nature, 
ery  much 
,  and  said 
irswood. 
Cecil  said 
ra  coming 
\ — he  will 
Sir  Peter. 
;s-making. 
ain  you  in 

n  the  new 
jome  little 
red  again, 
n  liis  face, 

;y,  are  you 
difference, 

ted  up  the 
Have  the 
Queenie  ! 

e  eye-glass 
d  to  a  dull 
d  stared  at 

le  going  to 
th  are  you 

ntie  shake, 
tl^c  uiO-ttei 


"v 


1 


% 


M 


Miss  Herncastle  turned  calmly  from  the  children,  and  again 
looked  at  the  baronet. 

"  He  certainly  looks  very  ill.     Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ?  " 

**  Her  voice  !  "  the  baronet  said,  in  a  horror-struck  whisper ; 
"  her  eyes,  her  face  !     Oh,  Heaven  !  who  is  this  ?  " 

"Who?"  his  wife  cried,  with  a  second  angry  shake.  ''Are 
you  mad  ?  Whom  are  you  looking  at  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Who?'' 

"  That  woman— that  girl  !     Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  Miss  Herncastle,  the  children's  governess,  you  little  idiot ! " 
Lady  Dangerfield  actually  called  that  noble  baronet  a  "  little 
idiot,"  and  gave  him  a  second  shake  into  the  bargain.  "  What 
is  there  about  her  to  frighten  you  into  fits,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  Miss  Herncastle,  the  governess,"  he  mu;  tered,  falling  back  ; 
"  and  for  one  moment — I  thought — I  could  have  sworn  it  was 
— it  was — "  . 

«' Well— whom?" 

"  One  dead  and  buried  for  six  long  years." 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her  abruptly,  and  with  that  ghastly 
answer  walked  into  the  house. 

My  lady  turned  angrily  uj^on  her  new  governess. 

"Really,  Miss  Herncastle."  she  began,  haughtily,  "this  is 
very  extraordinary,  I  must  say.  The  l^arl  of  Ruysland  sees 
you  last  night  in  the  moonlight  and  takes  you  for  a  ghost,  Sir 
Peter  Dangerfield  sees  you  to-day  in  the  sunshine,  and  takes 
you  for  another.     Who  are  you,  pray  ?  " 

The  faintest  symptom  of  an  amused  smile  dawned  on  the 
tranquil  face  of  the  tall  nursery  governess. 

"  I  am  Helen  Herncastle,  my  lady,  and  the  ghost  of  no  one 
that  I  know  of." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  outright — her  sweet,  mellow  laugh. 

"How  absurd  you  are,  Ginevra.  Ghost,  indeed  !  Only  evil 
consciences  see  ghosts,  and  Miss  Herncastle  is  much  too  sub- 
stantial for  ghost  or  fairy.  She  resembles  some  one  Sir  Peter 
has  once  known — dead  six  years  he  said.  Was  there  not  a 
cousin — a  young  lady  who  died  suddenly — an — " 

'•Impostor,"  said  Lady  Dangerfield.  "Yes,  there  was — I 
dare  say  it  is  biiC  !  It's  not  Miss  Herncastle's  fault,  I  suppose, 
that  she  must  resemble  dead  people,  but  it's  very  extraordinary 
and  very  unpleasant.  My  nerves  have  received  a  shock  they 
will  not  recover  from  for  a  week.     I  hate  scenes  !  " 

And  then,  with  a  last  backwaul,  distrustful  glance  at  the  gov- 
erness, my  lady  swej)t  away  upstairs  in  vf,ry  bad  temper  indeed 


I 


1 


II 


:• 


^i  J  ' 


244 


/^r  SCARSWOOD. 


But  bad  temper  had  )'ears  ago  become  a  chronic  complaint  of 
Lady  Dingerfield's.  The  world  had  gone  wrong  with  her  in  the 
days  of  love's  young  dream,  and  soured  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  within  her  for  all  time.  It  was  not  ^''•ss  llerncastlc's 
fault,  perhaps,  that  people  should  mistake  aei  ..'.  first  sight  for 
a  ghost,  still  it  was  vexatious  and  exasperating,  and  if  her  nerves 
were  to  be  unstrung  in  this  manner,  it  would  i)erhaps  have  been 
better  to  have  paid  a  higher  price  for  a  commonplace  person, 
who  would  not  startle  earls  and  baronets  into  mistaking  her  for 
the  spirit  of  their  loved  ones  gone. 

Lady  Cecil  lingered  for  a  moment  behind.  She  laid  her  slen- 
der gloved  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  governess,  and  looked  into 
her  face  with  that  rarely  sweet  smile  that  had  driven  so  many 
men  fathoms  deep  in  love. 

"  You  will  not  mind  Lady  Dangerfield,  Miss  Herncasde  ? 
She  is  nervous  and  easily  irritated ;  she  has  had  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  in  her  life-time,  and  little  things  annoy  her.  These 
momentary  irritations  pass  with  her  as  quickly  as  they  come. 
Do  not  let  them  annoy  you." 

Sweet  and  gracious  words,  spoken  with  sweet  and  gracious 
meaning.  Miss  Herncastle,  still  standing  with  Bijou  humbly  in 
her  arms,  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met,  the  eyes  of  the  working- 
woman  and  the  delicate,  high-bred  patrician.  What  was  in  the 
ga/.e  of  these  steady  gray  eyes  that  made  Lady  Cecil  recoil  a 
step  ?  What  in  the  expression  of  the  quiet  face  that  made  her 
remove  her  hand  hastily  and  shrink  away  ?  She  could  never 
have  told  ;  the  eyes  were  calm,  the  face  emotionless,  and  yet — 

"  You  are  very  kind,  niy  lady.  I  am  not  annoyed — I  have  no 
right  to  be.  Peoi)le  in  my  position  are  not  apt  to  be  too  sen- 
sitive, still  I  thank  you  very  much." 

Lady  Cecil  bent  her  head,  caught  up  her  gray  silk  skirts  and 
swept  away. 

"  Whoever  Miss  Herncastle  is,  I  think  she  must  have  seen 
•svhat  they  call  better  days.  She  is  a  lady  evidently,  in  spite  of 
her  position.  She  attracts  me  and  rc[K*ls  me  at  once.  They 
are  handsome  eyes,  but  how  coldly,  how  hardly  they  look  at 
you.  A  striking  face,  the  face  of  a  clever  woman,  and  yet  1 
can't  like  it.  Something  in  the  look  she  gave  me  just  now 
made  my  flesh  creep,  and  she  doesn't  resemble  any  dead  i)cr- 
son  ever  /  knew.  Papa  took  her  for  a  ghost,  and  Sir  Peter, 
too.      How  very  odd." 

Perhaps  she  would  have  thought  it  yet  more  odd  could  she 
have  seen  Sir  Peter  still  lingering  farther  down-  the  entrance 


r  : 


i 


")1aint  of 
2r  in  the 
■  human 
ncastlc's 
sight  for 
IV  nerves 
Lve  been 
person, 
y  her  for 

her  slen- 
ked  into 
so  many 

•ncastle  ? 

t  deal  of 

These; 

ey  come. 

gracious 
umbly  in 
working- 
as  in  the 
I  recoil  a 
iiade  her 
lid  never 
.nd  yet — • 
;  have  no 
too  sen- 

;kirts  and 

ave  seen 
n  spite  of 
They 
f  look  at 
md  yet  I 
just  now 
dead  per- 
Sir  Peter, 

could  she 
entrance 


AT  a  CARS  WOOD. 


245 


.► 


.» 


ball,  screened  by  a  porphyry  case  taller  than  himself,  and 
watching  the  governess,  as  one  of  the  servants  conducted  liei 
to  her  chamber.  Still  more  odd,  could  she  have  seen  him 
follow,  as  though  drawn  by  souie  irresistible  fliscination,  up 
along  corridors  and  galleries,  until  he  stood  in  the  passage 
leading  to  the  nursery^  and  the  rooms  of  the  governess  and 
children. 

While  he  stood  irresolute,  hardly  knowing  what  he  wanted  or 
why  he  had  come,  the  nursery  door  opened,  one  of  the  twins 
came  bouncing  out,  and  ran  headlong  against  him  in  the  evening 
twilight  of  the  hall. 

"Don't  scream.  Pansy — it's  I."  Sir  Peter  clapped  his  hand 
over  her  mouth.  "  I  only  came  up  here  to — to — Pansy,  where's 
the  governess  ?  " 

Pansy  po-inted  to  the  nursery  door,  with  wide  eyes  of  wonder. 

"What  is  she  doing?" 

"  Looking  out  of  the  window  and  looking  grumpy.  I  hate 
grumpy  governesses.  I  hate  Miss  Herncastle.  Why  didn't 
mamma  fetch  us  a  governess  like  Aunt  Cecil.  She's  nice.  She 
plays  blind  man's  buff  with  us,  and  battledore.  I  hate  poky 
people.  So  does  Pearl.'  Miss  Herncastle's  poky,  and  solemn, 
and  stiff.     Papa  Peter,  do  you  want  her?     I'll  tell  her." 

"Oh!  no,  I  don't  want  her — you  mustn't  tell  her.  I — Pm 
going  down  again.  Don't  say  anything  about  my  being  up 
here.  Pansy — there's  a  good  girl." 

He  turned  in  a  nervous,  irresolute  manner — a  manner  that 
had  become  habitual  to  him  of  late  years — and  groped  his  way 
downstairs.  Six  years  had  passed  since  tliat  tragic  day,  when 
he  had  looked  upon  Katherine  Dangerfield's  dead  face,  and 
those  six  years  had  made  him  an  old  man.  Remorse,  terror, 
nerves,  dyspepsia,  be  it  what  it  might — the  fact  remained  :  Sir 
Peter  Dangerfield,  at  six-and-thirty,  was  an  old  man.  He  was 
one  of  your  fleshless,  sallow  people,  who  naturally  age  fast,  and 
since  his  marriage  the  change  for  the  worse  had  been  twice  as 
apparent  as  before.  His  pale,  sunken  eyes  looked  paler. and 
dimmer  than  ever,  he  walked  with  a  habitual  stoop,  he  shut 
hin)self  up  with  dry-as-dust  books,  and  insects  and  fossils,  and 
had  little  to  say  to  anybody. 

The  resident  gentry  of  (he  neighborhood  had  instinctively 
shunned  him  since  his  accession  to  Scarswood.  Strangers 
looked  with  a  sort  of  contemptuous  pity  at  the  dried-up,  shriv- 
eled, pitiful  master  of  this  grand  domain,  and  he  shrank  away 
from  those  humiliating  glances  with  morbid  pride.     The  desire 


I  f 


246 


AT  SCARSWOOD, 


■M 


cT  his  heart  was  his — Katherine  Dangerfield  ivas  in  her  grave 
— he  had  had  his  revenge  and  his  triumph— Z^/// never  in  the 
days  of  his  most  abject  poverty  had  he  been  half  so  miserable 
as  now. 

Of  Mrs.  Vavasor  he  had  never  heard  since  that  night  upon 
which  he  had  paid  her  price,  and  they  iiad  parted.  In  Paris  or 
Baden,  doubtless  under  some  new  nomde-fantasia,  she  was  en- 
joying herself  after  her  own  Hishion  upon  the  proceeds  of  her 
plotting. 

Of  all  the  actors  in  that  dark  tragedy  of  Scarswood,  only 
himself  reaiained.  Mr.  Henry  C  tis  shortly  after  removed  to 
London  wiui  all  liis  belongings,  and  with  Oaston  Dantree. 
"  Katherine  Dangerfield  left  him  in  my  charge,"  the  young  as- 
sistant said.  *'  In  my  charge  he  remains  until  he  is  able  to  take 
care  of  himself." 

Whether  or  no  that  time  had  ever  come,  Sir  Peter  had  never 
discovered.  Mr.  Otis  had  never  returned  to  Casdeford,  and  it 
was  a  subject  he  was  chary  of  mentioning,  or  thinking  of  even. 
It  came  to  him  in  dreams — bad,  disturbing  dreams,  engendered 
partly  by  an  e.''  conscience,  partly  by  heavy  English  dinners. 
In  his  waking  hours  the  aim  of  his  life  was  to  banish  it.  And 
lo  !  in  one-of  the  hours  when  he  had  most  succeeded,  a  woman, 
a  stranger,  stood  before  him,  like — horribly,  unnaturally  like — 
Katherine  Dangerfield. 

'■'■Livings  I  will  pursue  you  to  the  end  of  the  earth.  Dead, 
I  will  return,  if  the  dead  can  1 " 

He  had  never  forgotten  those  words — words  only  sjioken  in  a 
girl's  impotent  passion,  in  her  knowledge  of  the  cowardly  and 
superst'tious  nature  she  had  to  deal  with.  Words  that  were 
but  a  ^veak  woman's  meaningless  threat,  but  which  from  the 
hour  he  had  looked  upon  her  dead  face  had  returned  to  him 
with  ghasilv  force. 

Would  Miss  Herncastle  be  at  dinner  ? 

That  was  the  one  thought  ui)permost  in  his  mind  as  he  made 
his  own  toilet.  He  kept  no  valet  or  body-servant  of  any  kind. 
Valets  were  expensive,  thievish,  and  prying.  None  of  the  tribe 
should  spy  upon  him,  and  help  devour  his  substance.  My  lady 
was  enormously  extravagant.  Retrenchment  must  begin  some- 
where. 

Rich  with  silver,  sparkling  with  crystal,  white  with  linen,  gay 
with  flowers,  the  round  dinner-table  looked  a  picture  as  he 
came  in.  Through  the  long  French  window,  open  to  the  lawn, 
tlie  perfume   of  my  lady's  rose   garden,  the   magnolias,  and 


. 


'' 


AT  SCARSWOOD. 


247 


- 


Ignore 
forsTotten. 


clematis  came.  A  silver  gray  mist  lay  over  the  park,  a  faint, 
new  moon  glimmered  up  in  the  blue,  a  nightingale  sang  its 
l)1aintive  vesper  chant  in  the  green  gloom  of  the  trees,  and  far 
off  the  shine  of  the  summer  stars  lay  upon  the  sea.  And  within 
the  gas  was  lit  in  all  the  crystal  globes  and  silver  branches, 
and  my  lady,  dressed  in  one  of  Worth's  most  ravishing  master- 
pieces, though  there  were  no  gentlemen  to  admire  but  her  uncle 
and  husband,  looked  a  fit  goddess  to  preside  at  the  feast.  Lord 
Ruysland,  bland,  urbane,  suave,  smooth,  was  faultlessly  attired, 
and  with  a  rose  in  his  button-hole.  Lady  Cecil,  in  gold-brown 
bilk  the  iuie  of  her  eyes,  was  also  there  ;  but  not  Miss  Hern- 
castle.     He  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief 

"  I  might  have  known  it,"  he  muttered.  "  My  lady  isn't  the 
one  to  dine  with  her  nursery  governess,  company  or  no  com- 
pany. I  shall  see  very  little  of  her,  that's  evident,  and  I'm 
glad  of  it.  What  the  devil  does  the  wonjan  mean  looking  like 
—like—?" 

He  did  not  care  to  speak  the  name  even  to  himself;  but 
them  as  we  may,  there  are  things  that  will  not  be 
This  was  one.  ^^iss  Herncastle  was  not  present 
at  the  dinner-table,  but  the  phantom  face  of  the  dead  7vas.  In 
spirit  Katherine  Dangerfield  was  at  his  elbow,  and  he  ate  and 
drank  like  a  man  in  a  gloomy  dream. 

"  You're  not  looking  well,  my  dear  Dangerfield,"  my  Lord 
of  Ruysland  said.  "You  positively  are  not.  You  lose  flesh, 
you  lose  spirits,  you  lose  appetite.  It  is  evident  that  the  air 
of  Scarswocd  does  not  agree  with  you.  Take  my  advice,  and 
go  abroad." 

His  lordship  was  right.  The  air  of  Scarsvvood  did  not  agree 
with  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  and  never  would. 

*'  Go  to  Germany,  and  try  the  mineral  waters.  Change  of 
scene  and  tonics  are  what  you  want.  By  all  means,  Danger- 
field,  go  abroad  and  try  the  waters.  Beastly  stuff,  I  admit, 
but  of  use,  sir — of  use." 

He  needed  waters  certainly — the  waters  of  Lethe — had  that 
fabled  river  existed  in  Germany.  He  was  almost  entirely 
silent  at  dinner — silent  still  "across  the  walnuts  and  the  wii-"",' 
but  in  the  drawing  room,  after  dinner,  he  suddenly  foand  his 
tongue.  His  wife  was  practising  some  new  music  sent  her  by 
Major  Frankland,  whose  one  weakness  it  was  to  fancy  himself 
a  modern  Mozart,  and  bore  his  friends  to  death  with  his  own 
compositions.  I„oid  Ruysland  had  composed  himself  for  a 
comfortable  slumber  in  a  sleepy,  hollow  arm-chair,  and  Lady 


W  i     I 


248 


AT  SCARS  WOOD. 


Cecil,  pensive  and  pale,  stood  gazing  out  at  the  luminrms, 
slarrydusk,  listening  to  the  nightingale's  song,  to  the  call  of  the 
deer  in  the  parh,  to  the  soft  summer  murmur  of  the  trees. 

"  Lady  Cecil,  is  Miss  Herncastle's  hair  brown  or  black  ?  " 

From  her  waking  dream,  a  sliarp  i)iping  voice  at  her  elbow, 
asking  this  abrupt  question,  aroused  her.  She  glanced  round, 
glanced  down,  for  she  was  the  taller  of  the  twO;  and  saw  the 
pinched,  yellow  face  of  little  Sir  Peter. 

Now,  Lady  Cecil,  out  of  the  greatness  of  a  generous  heart, 
had  an  infuu'te  pity  for  all  inftrior,  all  persecuted,  all  long- sulVer- 
ing  things.  And  she  pitied  Sir  Peter  greatly.  His  wife  treated 
liiin  with  about  half  a  quarter  the  resi)cct  and  affection  she  felt 
for  Bijou,  and  would  have  bewailed  the  death  of  the  dog  much 
the  deeper  of  the  two.  He  looked  sickly  and  miserable  :  he  had 
no  friends,  no  conn^)anions  ;  he  was,  in  her  eyes,  a  poor,  little, 
imposed-upon,  persecuted  martyr.  Some  instinct  told  him  siie 
was  his  friend,  and  in  his  trouble  he  came  to  her  now.  She  would 
not  laugh  at  him,  she  would  not  repeat  what  he  said,  and  he  must 
conlide  in  some  one  or  die. 

"  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  how  you  startled  me  !  I  was  thousands 
of  miles  away,  I  believe,  when  you  spoke.  What  did  you  say? 
Miss  Herncastle — what  ?  " 

"  I  asked  you  if  Miss  Herncastle  had  long,  light-brown  hair  ?  " 

A  curious  question  surely.  Lady  Cecil's  soft,  fawn-colored 
eyes  opened  a  little.        •    - 

"  For  its  length,  I  cannot  answer.  Who  can  tell  who  has 
long  or  short  hair  in  these  days  of  chignons  and  false  tresses. 
Of  the  color  I  can't  speak  positively.    It  is  black — jet  black." 

"  Black !  "  he  gave  a  great  gasp  of  relief.  "  You  are  sure, 
Lady  Cecil?" 

"  Certain,  Sir  Peter.  And  her  eyebows  and  eyelashes  are 
of  the  same  dense  darkness." 

"And  her  eyes,  Lady  Cecil — are  they  gray?" 

"  Still  harping  on  my  daughter  ! "  laughed  La  Reine  Blanche. 
"Yes,  Sir  Peter,  they  are  gray — very  dark — very  large — very 
fine.  You  appear  to  take  a  most  extraordinary  interest  in 
Ginevra's  new  governess,  certainly.  Resembles,  doubtless, 
some  one  you  have  known  ?" 

"  Resembles  !  that  is  not  the  word  for  it.  I  tell  you.  Lady 
Cecil" — in  a  voice  of  deep  suijpressed  intensity — "it  is  the 
sauiC  fiice,  the  same — ^he  same.  Older,  graver,  leeper,  changed 
in  sonie  things-    out  the  same.     The  face  of  K.Uherine  Dan- 


I 


ge 


rfield ! 


AT  SCARSV/OOD. 


249 


,k  ? " 

elbow, 

round, 

■saw  the 


The  name  had  not  passed  his  lips  for  years.  His  ^'es  had  a 
glitter,  his  whole  face  an  excitement,  his  voice  an  intensity  she 
had  never  heard  before.  She  drew  back  fioni  him  a  little,  yet 
curious  and  interested  too. 

"  Katherine  Dangerfield.  Yes,  I  have  heard  her  story.  It 
was  in  the  papers  years  ago,  and  Ginevra  told  me  of  her  at  the 
time  of  her  marriage.  A  very  sad  story — a  very  sad  fate.  She 
lost  all — fortune,  name,  father,  and  her  affianced  husband,  on 
lier  weddin<T  dav.  And  a  week  after  she  died.  It  is  the  sad- 
dest  story,  I  think  I  ever  heard.  AVhat  a  dastard,  what  a  cow- 
ardly dastard  that  man  must  have  been.  What  became  of  him, 
Sir  Peter  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  have  never  asked — I  never  cared.  /  was 
not  to  blame — no  one  has  a  right  to  blame  me — I  only  took 
what  was  lawfully  niy  own — she  had  no  shadow  of  right  to  Scars- 
wood.  How  could  I  tell  she  would  die  ?  Other  women  lose 
their  fathers,  their  husbands,  their  fortunes,  and  live  on.  How 
did  I  know  it  would  kill  her  ?  I  say  again,"  his  voice  rising 
shrill,  and  high,  and  angrv,  "no  one  has  a  right  to  blame 
vieP' 

"  And  no  one  does  blame  you,  Sir  Peter.  Why  should  they  ? 
Of  course  you  could  not  foretell  she  would  die.  The  only  one 
to  blame  was  that  wretch  who  deserted  her.  She  was  ready  to 
give  up  everything  for  him — to  take  him,  poor  and  obscure  as 
he  was,  and  love  him,  and  give  him  all,-  and  in  the  hour  of  her 
ruin  he  deserted  her.  Oh,  it  was  a  shame — a  shame  I  And  Gin- 
evra's  governess  really  resembles  this  poor  dead  young  lady 
so  strongly  ?  " 

"  It  is  horrible,  I  tell  you — horrible  !  I  thought  I  saw  a 
ghost  when  she  rose  up  before  me  three  hours  ago.  Lady 
Cecil,  do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?  " 

He  asked  the  question  abruptly,  and  with  perfect  gravity. 
Lady  Cecil  laughed. 

'*  Believe  in  ghosts  !  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  who  does  believe  in 
ghosts  in  the  nineteenth  century?  I  fancy  the  ghosts  of  Ban- 
quo  and  Hamlet's  father  are  the  only  ghosts  ever  seen  in  Eng- 
land now.  Like  the  fairies,  they  crossed  to  Germany  centuries 
ago." 

"Have  you  read  Scott's  *■  DerdOtioJo^y^  and  Mrs.  Crowe's 
'Night  Side  of  Nature^  Lady  Cecil  ?  "  ' 

"  And  Mrs.  Radclifte's  raw-licad-and-bloody-bone  romances  ? 
Oh,  yes.  Sir  Peter,  I  have  gone  through  them  all."  . 

"  And  still  you  don't  believe  ?  " 
11* 


it 


li 


250 


Ar  SCARSiyOOD. 


"  And  still  I  don't  believe.  When  I  see  a  ghost  bond  fide  and 
in — no,  out  of  the  flesh,  I  shall  yield  ;  not  sooner.  But  why 
do  you  ask?  Surely,  Sir  Vci^x, you  don't  believe  in  anything 
so  absurd  ?  " 

"  Wlio  can  vouch  for  its  absurdity  ?  Lady  Cecil,  yes — I  do 
believe  that  the  spirits  of  the  dead  return." 

Lady  Cecil  looked  at  him,  half  laughing,  half-dismayed,  and 
gave  a  little  feminine  shiver. 

"Good  gracious!  how  (lerman  you  grow.  This  comes  of 
living  alone,  with  blinded  eyesight  'poring  over  miserable 
books,'  as  Tennyson  says.  Now,  Sir  Peter,  I  am  skeptical.  I 
want  proof.  But  1  am  open  to  conviction.  Did  you  ever  see 
a  ghost  ?  That  is  what  alchemists  call  a  '  crucial  test.'  In 
the  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night  do  spirits  from  the  vasty 
deep  come  to  make  darkness  hideous  ?  " 

"  You  laugh,  Lady  Cecil,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  In  the  vulgar 
sujjerstition  no  ghost  in  sliroud  ever  came  to  my  bedside,  but 
there  are  other  ways  of  being  haunted.  There  are  dreams — hor- 
rible, awful  dreams,  that  come  night  after  night,  the  same  thing 
over  and  over,  and  from  which  you  start  up  with  the  cold  sweat 
on  your  brow  and  the  damp  of  death  in  your  hair — visions  that 
come  to  you  in  your  sleep  from  the  infernal  regions,  I  believe, 
more  ghastly  than  any  waking  vision.  Over  and  over,  and 
ever  the  same — what  do  you  call  that,  Lady  Cecil  ?" 

"  Hot  suppers,  Sir  Peter,  and  heavy  dinners.  Any  skillful 
physician  will  exorcise  your  dreaming  apparitions." 

"  And  a  few  miles  from  here  there  is  a  house,  Bracken  Hollow 
it  is  called,  which  no  one,  not  the  bravest  in  the  parish,  is  willing 
to  pass  after  nightfall.  A  house  in  svhich  a  murder  once  was 
done,  where  unearthly  sights  are  seen  at  unearthly  hours,  and 
unearthly  sounds  heard.     What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  That  it's  a  very  common  story,  indeed.  Why  even  at  papa's 
place,  down  in  Hants,  Clive  Court,  popular  rumor  says  there 
is  a  ghost.  An  Earl  of  Ruysland,  who  connnitted  suicide  two 
hundred  years  ago,  stalks  about  yet  in  the  twilight,  gory  and 
griin.  That  is  the  legend,  hut  no  living  mortal  has  ever  seen 
him.  If  he  walks,  as  they  say,  he  takes  good  care  to  keep  out 
of  sight.  There  are  haunted  houses  in  every  county  in  Eng- 
land. No  fine  old  family  would  be  complete  without  its  family 
ghost." 

"  You  don't  believe  what  you  say.  Lady  Cecil.  I  tell  you  I 
have  heard  the  sounds  at  Bracken  Hollow  myself." 

"  Indeed  ! "  but  still  Lady  Cecil  smiled  skeptically :  "a  real^ 


fide  and 
iiit  why 
mylhing 

:s — I  do 

^'ed,  and 

:onies  of 
iserable 
tical.  I 
ever  see 
;st.'  In 
he  vasty 

e  vulgar 
side,  but 
us — h  er- 
ne thing 
Id  sweat 
ons  that 
believe, 
ver,  and 

^  skillful 

1  Hollow 
is  willing 
nee  was 
lurs,  and 

It  papa's 
ys  there 
:ide  two 
Tory  and 
/er  seen 
:eep  out 
in  P"ng- 
ts  family 


;ll  you  I 
"  a  real^ 


u 


AT  SCARSVVOOD. 


251 


-sane  on  all  things  save  one 
believe  Sir  Peter  is  a  mono- 


bonA  fide  haunted  house  I  What  a  charnr'ng  neighborhood. 
Now  the  one  ungratified  ambition  of  my  life  is  to  see  a  disem- 
bodied spirit — to  hear  it,  if  it  is  inclined  to  make  noise.  Before 
I  am  a  week  older  I  shall  pay — what  was  it  ? — Bracken  Hollow 
— a  visit.  Bracken  Hollow !  it  has  a  ghostly  and  mysterious 
sound.  Has  the  ghost  full  possession  of  the  premises,  or  is 
Bracken  Hollow  shared  by  some  less  ethereal  tenant  ?  " 

"An  old  woman  lives  there.  She  was  Katherine  Danger- 
field's  nurse — Old  Hannah." 

"  Then  I  shall  pay  Old  Hannah  a  visit,  and  investigate.  I 
shall  positively,  Sir  Peter.  Excuse  me,  Ginevra  is  calling — I 
suppose  she  wants  me  to  help  her  with  that  tiresome  sonata." 

She  walked  away,  leaving  Sir  Peter  gloomily  by  the  window 
alone. 

"I  have  heard  of monomaniacs- 
— mad  on  that,"  she  thought.  "  I 
maniac  on  the  subject  of  ghosts." 

Perhaps  Lady  Cecil  was  right.  He  hadn't  even  told  her  all  his 
madness.  How  evening  after  evening,  rain  or  shine,  summer 
or  winter,  through  ^eet  or  storm,  a  "  spirit  in  his  feet"  led  him 
whether  or  no  to  Katherine  Dangerfield's  grave.  He  had  no 
wish  to  go,  but  he  went — he  could  not  stay  away.  It  had 
grown  such  a  habit  that  it  seemed  to  him  now  if  he  did  not  pay 
that  twilight  visit  she  would  assuredly  visit  him  before  morning 
dawned.  He  made  his  daily  pilgrimage  to  this  Mecca,  and  the 
people  of  the  town  had  grown  tired  talking  and  wondering  over 
it.  "  He  took  everything  from  her  when  she  was  alive,"  they 
said,  "  and  now  that  she's  dead  he  plays  the  hypocrite,  and 
visits  her  grave  every  evening.  I  wonder  he  isn't  afraid  she'll 
rise  up  and  confront  him." 

Perhaps  he  was — it  had  been  the  mania  of  his  life.  Surely 
Katherine  had  kept  her  vow.  He  was,  if  there  ever  was  in  this 
world,  "a  haunted  man" — sane  enough  on  all  other  things — on 
this,  much  thinking  had  made  him  mad. 

He  retired  early  that  night — he  was  less  alone  shut  up  by 
himself  than  in  the  drawing-room  with  his  wife  and  her  relatives. 
All  night  long  candles  burned  in  his  bedroom,  and  one  of  the 
men  servants  slept  in  an  open  closet  adjoining.  Never  without 
light  and  never  alone. 

He  had  grown  sleepless,  too — and  it  was  generally  the  small 
hours  before  slumber  came  to  him.  He  arose  late  next  day, 
breakfasted  by  himself,  and  did  not  join  the  family  until  luncheon 
time. 


:iS2 


AT  SCARS  WOOD. 


ml 


Miss  Herncastle  was  not  at  that  incal  cillicr — it  seeniod  she 
was  to  take  all  hers  with  the  children  in  the  nursery.  lie  iiad 
his  wife's  hauteur  and  intolerance  to  thank  i'or  something  at 
least. 

He  returned  to  his  study,  spent  three  hours  impaling  his 
beetles  and  cockchafers,  then  arose,  i)uf.  on  his  hat  and  turned 
to  leave  the  house.  Little  Pansy  ran  up  against  him  in  the 
hall. 

"  Papa  Peter,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  who's  come  ?  " 

«'  No." 

"Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  Such  ia — oh  jz/r/^  a  great  big  man, 
with  yellow  whiskers  and  a  solenm  face — as  solemn  as  Miss 
Heincastle's.  We  don't  like  Miss  Herncastle — Pearl  and  me 
— she  won't  play  with  us,  and  can't  dress  dolls.  We  like  Aunt 
Cecil — we  do.  She  was  playing  *  Hunt  the  Squirrel'  with  us 
when  Sir  Arthur  came  up  in  the  Hy  from  the  station.  He's  in 
the  drawing-room  now  with  mamma  and  Uncle  Raoul,  and  is 
going  to  stay  ever  so  long.  I  wish  he  had  stayed  away.  Aunt 
Cecil  won't  play  'Hunt  the  Squirrel'  now  any  more.  She 
blushed  when  he  caught  her.     1  hate  great  big  men." 

"Ah  !  yes — at  nine — you'll  probably  change  your  opinion  at 
nineteen,"  muttered  "papa  Peter"  cynically,  passing  out. 

Except  as  they  swelled  the  diurnal  bill  of  household  expenses, 
my  lady's  visitors  were  very  little  concern  to  my  lady's  husband. 
He  went  on  his  way  now,  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  his  iiuall 
stooping  figure  bent,  his  spectacles  fixed  on  the  ground — moody, 
solitary,  unhappy — to  pay  his  daily  visit  to  that  lonesome  grave. 

The  last  light  of  the  July  sun  came  slanting  ovei  the  downs, 
through  the  trees,  and  lay  in  ridges  of  glory  upon  the  graves. 
It  was  all  strangely  hushed  here  ;  the  town  with  its  bustle,  and 
life,  and  noise  lay  behinil.  Death  and  silence  reigned.  He 
rarely  met  any  one  at  this  hour;  the  towns-people  were  taking 
their  tea.  Yonder  was  the  house  Vvherein  she  had  died — yon- 
der her  grave,  with  its  gray  cross  and  its  brief  inscription — 

Katherine, 

yExAT  17. 

Resurgam. 

He  knew  it  so  well — lie  had  been  here  so  often.  Would  he 
go  on  coming  here,  he  wondered  wearily,  as  long  as  he  lived. 

He  paused.  What  was  that  ?  He  was  near  the  grave,  and 
standing  looking  down  upon  it,  her  back  turned  to  him,  he  saw 
a  woman.  A  woman  I  His  heart  gave  one  great  bound,  then 
.«ecined  to  turn  cold  and  still.    He  went  on — on — softly  over  the 


**ONCE  MORE    THE   GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS."     253 

grass,  impelled  by  the  same  irresistible  fascination  that  drew 
him  here.  His  feet  struck  a  dry  twig  ;  it  snapped,  and  the 
•woman  turned  and  looked  round.  There,  over  Katherine 
Dangerfield's  p;ravc,  looking  at  him  with  Katherine  Dangerfield's 
eyes,  stood  Miss  Herncastle,  the  governess  I 


man. 


CHAPTER  V. 


"ONCE   MORE   THE   GATE   BEHIND    ME    FALLS." 


OR  one  moment  he  thought  the  dead  had  arisen ;  for 
one  moment — he  stood  speechless  and  spell-bound  ; 
for  one  brief,  horrible  Jiioment  he  thought  he  saw 
™  Katherine  Dangerfield  looking  at  him  across  her  own 
grave !  She  made  no  attempt  to  speak,  but  stood  with  her  icy 
gaze  fixed  upon  him — her  pale,  changeless,  marble  face.  He 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Miss  Herncastle  ! "  he  gasped — "you  !  " 

Her  eyes  left  him,  and  he  moved.  While  they  were  riveted 
upon  him  he  had  stood  as  one  under  a  spell. 

"  I,  Sir  Peter ! " — the  low,  soft,  sweet  tones  lingered  like 
music  on  the  ear — "and  1  fear  I  have  startled  you  again;  but 
I  never  dreamed  of  seeing  you  here." 

"  Nor  1  you.  What  brings  you,  a  stranger,  to  this  place  of 
all  i^laces.  Miss  Herncastle,  so  soon  after  your  arrival?" 

He  asked  the  question  angrily  and  suspiciously.  Surely 
there  was  something  ominous  and  sinister  in  this  woman,  who 
looked  enough  like  the  dead  girl  to  have  been  her  twin  sist  ,r, 
and  who  visited  her  grave  so  speedily. 

Miss  Herncastle  drew  her  mantle  about  her  tall,  slim  figure, 
and  turned  to  go. 

"  I  came  out  for  a  walk,  Sir  Peter.  I  have  i>ee\\  in  the 
school-room  all  day,  and  I  am  not  used  to  such  close  confine- 
ment. I  asked  my  lady's  permission  to  take  a  walk,  and  she 
gave  it.  I  am  a  rapid  walker,  and  I  soon  found  myself  here, 
the  town  behind.  Jt  looked  so  peaceful,  so  calm,  so  inviting,' 
that  I  entered.  This  lonely  grave  attracted  me,  and  I  was 
reading  the  inscription  as  you  came  up.     if  I  had  known  it 


ill. 


i 


254 


''ONCE  MORE   THE   GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS » 


could  have  mattered  in  any  way — that  I  would  have  disturbed 
any  one  by  coming  —  I  should  not  have  come." 

She  bent  her  head  respectfully,  and  moved  away.  Dressed 
all  in  black,  moving  with  a  peculiarly  swift,  noiseless,  gliding 
step,  she  looked  not  unlike  a  phantom  herself  flitting  among 
the  graves.  And  in  what  an  emotionless,  level  monotone  she 
had  spoken,  as  a  child  repeats  a  lesson  learned  by  rote  ! 

He  stood  and  looked  after  her,  darkly,  distrustfully.  It 
seemed  plausible  enough  ;  but  that  hidden  instinct  that  comes 
to  us  to  warn  us  of  danger,  told  him  something  was  wrong. 

"  Who  is  she  ?"  he  repeated — "who  is  she  ?  Enough  like 
Katherine  to  be  her  twin  sister.  Who  is  she  ?"  He  stopped 
suddenly.  "  Enough  like  Katherine  to  be  her  twin  sister  I " 
And  why  not  ? — why  not  Katherine's  sister?  Who  was  there 
to  say  Katherine  never  had  a  sister?  He  knew  nothing  of  her 
or  her  family,  save  what  Mrs.  Vavasor  chose  to  tell.  Katherine 
might  have  had  a  dozen  sisters  for  what  he  or  she  ever  knew. 
A  gleam  came  into  his  eyes  ;  he  set  his  teeth  with  some  of  his  old 
bull-dog  resolution.  *'  Katherine  is  dead  and  buried — nothing 
can  alter ///d!/;  and  this  young  woman,  this  Miss  Herncastle,  is 
more  like  her  than  it  is  possible  for  any  but  sisters  to  be.  I'll 
fmd  out  who  Miss  Herncastle  is,  and  all  about  her,  and  what 
she's  here  for,  before  I'm  a  month  older  !" 

"Queenie!"  Lady  Dangerlield  said,  tossing  her  cousin  a 
rose-colored,  rose-sealed,  rose-scented  note,  *'  read  that." 

Lady  Cecil  caught  it.  The  note  was  written  in  big,  dashing 
chirography,  and  this  is  what  it  said  : 

"  St.  James  Street,  July  2cl. 
**  Dearest  Lady  Dangerfield  :  A  million  thanks  for  your  gracious 
remembrance — a  million  more  for  your  charming  invitation.  I  will  be  with 
you  on  the  afternoon  of  tliC4th.  From  what  I  hear  of  it,  Scarswood  Park 
must  be  a  terrestrial  paradise,  but  would  not  any  place  be  that  where  you 
were  ?  Devotedly, 

"Jasper  Algernon  Frankland." 

Lady  Cecil's  brown  eyes  flashed.  The  fulsome,  florid  style 
of  compliment,  the  familiarity — the  easy  insolence  of  the  writer 
■ — grated  like  some  discordant  noise  on  her  nerves.  She  looked 
up  reproach  fid ly. 

"Oh,  Ginevra!" 

"  And,  oh,  Queenie  I "  with  a  short  laugh,  but  not  looking 
round  from  the  stand  of  guelder-roses  over  which  she  was  bend- 
ing. "  You  see  we  will  not  be  moped  to  death  down  here  after 
all.     And  we  shall  have  two  gentlemen  more  than  we  counted 


Ml 


n 


**ONCE  MORE    THE   GATE  BEHIND    'IE  FALLS:* 


255 


.' 


on  for  our  lawn  party  this  afternoon.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a 
croquet  jilaycr  Sir  Arthur  is,  l)y  the  bye." 

"Gincvra,  1  wish  you  hachVt  asked  Major  Frankland  down 
here.  1  detest  that  man.  Sir  Peter  is  jealous.  The  odious 
familiar  way  he  addresses  you,  too,  and  his  horrid,  coarse,  com- 
monplace compliments.  Any  i)lace  imist  be  a  paradise  where 
you  arc !     lUh  !     Why  doesn't  lie  try  to  be  original  at  least." 

"  J.ady  Cecil  Clive  is  pleased  to  be  fastidious,"  retorteil  Lady 
Dangerfield,  teaiing  a  guelder-rose  to  pieces.  "  Who  is  origi- 
nal nowadays?  To  be  original  means  to  be  eccentric— to  be 
eccentric  is  the  worst  possible  style,  only  allowable  in  poets  and 
lunatics.     Major  Frankland  being  neither,  only — " 

"  A  well-dressed  idiot — " 

"  Only  an  everyday  gentleman — answers  my  note  of  invita- 
tion in  everyday  style.  You  ought  to  thank  me,  Queenie. 
Who  is  to  entertain  Sir  Arthur  and  take  him  off  your  hands 
when  you  tire  of  him  ?  Kven  baronets  with  thirty  thousand  a 
year  may  pall  sometimes  on  the  frivolous  mind  of  a  young  lady 
of  two-and-twenty.  Your  father  will  do  his  best — and  Uncle 
Raoul's  best,  when  he  tries  to  be  entertaining,  mealis  a  good 
deal;  but  still  Major  Frankland  will  be  a  great  auxiliary. 
Queenie,  I  wonder  why  you  dislike  him  so  much  !  " 

"  I  dislike  all  mere  club-room  loungers,  all  well-dressed  tai- 
lors' blocks,  without  one  idea  in  their  heads,  or  one  honest, 
manly  feeling  in  their  hearts.  Jasjier  Frankland  knows  Sir 
Peter  hates  him.  If  he  were  a  right-feeling  man,  would  he  come 
at  all,  knowing  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  when  I  invite  him.  And  again,  and  again,  and 
again  Sir  Peter  !  I  wish  Sir  Peter  was  at — Queenie,  you  have 
had  an  excellent  bringing-up  under  the  care  of  that  wicked, 
worldly  old  dowager,  Lady  Ruth,  but  in  some  things  you  are  as 
stupid  as  any  red-checked,  butter-making  dairymaid.  Talking 
of  ideas,  and  feeling,  and  Sir  Peter's  jealousy — such  nonsense  ! 
When  1  did  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield — and,  without  exception,  I 
believe  he  is  the  most  intensely  stupid  and  disagreeable  little 
wretch  the  wide  earth  holds — when  I  did  him  the  honor  of 
marrying  him,  I  did  it  to  secure  for  myself  a  pleasant  home,  all  the 
comforts  and  luxuries  of  life — and  I  class  the  society  of  pleas- 
ant men  like  Jasper  Frankland,  chief  among  those  luxuries. 
He  is  the  best  figure,  the  best  style,  the  best  bow,  the  best 
waltzer,  tile  best  second  in  a  duel,  and  the  best  scandal-monger 
from  here  to  the  'sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall.'  If  Sir  Peter 
doesn't  like  the  friends  I  ask,  then  I  would  recommend  Sir  Petei 


256 


"  ONCE  MORE    THE   GA  TE  DEIUND  ME  FALLS » 


i 


w  % 


to  keep  out  of  their  sight,  and  make  liimsclf  happy  in  the  so- 
ciety of  his  impaled  bugs,  and  dried  biittertlics,  and  stuffed 
toads.  Congenial  companionshi[),  1  should  say — birds  of  a 
feather,  etc.  Wy  the  wa}',  what  was  that  long  discourse  you 
and  he  had  last  evening  about  ?     Natural  philosophy  ?" 

"No,  ghosts,"  ans\V(.red  Lady  Cecil,  gravely.  "lie  be- 
lieves in  ghosts.  So  did  the  great  Dr.  Johnson — svas  it  ?  lie 
isn't  (juite  positive  yet  that  Aliss  Herncastle  is  not  the  disem- 
bodied spirit  of  that  poor  girl  tliat  died  here.  And  he  says 
there  is  a  jjlace  three  miles  ofit'— Ihacken  Hollow,  I  believe, 
haunted  to  a  dead  certainty.  Now  I  am  going  to  see  that 
house  the  very  first  opportunity.  Sir  Peter  gravely  affums  that 
he  has  heard  the  sights  and  seen  the  sounds — no — 1  don't 
mean  that — the  other  way — vice  versa.'^ 

'  My  op;:'>ion  is,"  said  Sir  Peter's  wife,  "that  Sir  Peter  is  in 
<i  very  bad  way,  and  that  we  shall  be  taking  out  a  decree  of 
lunacy  against  him  one  of  those  days.  Sir  Peter  may  not  abso- 
lutely be  mad,  but  in  the  elegantly  allegorical  language  of  die 
day,  his  head's  not  level." 

"  Wliat  is  that  about  Sir  Peter  ?  "  inquired  the  earl  sauntering 
up.  "  IVIad  is'  he,  (Jincvra?  'Pon  my  life  I  always  thought  so 
since  he  committed  his  crowning  folly  of  marrying  jw/.  Pray, 
what  has  he  done  lately  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  than  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruys- 
land  has  done  before  him — talked  of  seeing  ghosts.  He  takes 
Miss  Herncastle,  the  governess,  for  a  ghost.  So  did  you.  Now, 
Uncle  Raoul,  whose  ghost  did  you  take  her  for  ?  " 

She  shot  her  words  back  spitefully  enough.  The  earl's  little 
satirical  jests  were  apt  to  be  biting  sometimes.  She  looked  at 
him  as  she  asked  the  (iuestion,but  my  lord's  countenance  never 
changed.  Like  Talleyrand,  if  you  had  kicked  him  from  behind, 
his  face  would  not  show  it. 

"  Docs  she  bear  an  unearthly  resemblance  to  some  lovely 
being,  loved  and  lost  half  a  century  ago,  my  lord  ?  You 
remember  she  gave  you  (juite  a  start  the  day  of  her  arrival." 

"  I  remember,"  said  the  earl  placidly  ;  "  but  she  (iid  not 
disturb  me  very  ^.^ady.  She  has  a  vague  sort  of  resemblance 
to  a  lady  dead  and  gone,  but  not  sufficient  to  send  me  into 
hysterics.  Queenie,  I'm  going  to  the  station — you  know  who 
comes  to-day?" 

"  Yes,  papa,"  constrainedly. 

''  If  you  are  going  into  Castleford,  my  lord,"  said  Ginevra, 
**  I  have  two  or  three  commissions  I  wish  you  would  execute. 


' 


Siif  t 

b  1  \ 


i^'o, 


**  ONCE  MORE   THE   GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS:'    257 


rht  so 


Qiieenie,  where  are  you  going  ? — it  will  not  detain  me  an  in- 
stant." 

"  I  am  going  to  the  nursery.  Lessons  are  over  by  this  time, 
and  Pearl  says  no  one  can  make  dolls'  dresses  with  the  skill  I 
can." 

She  left  the  room.  T.ady  Dangerfield  looked  after  her.  then 
at  her  uncle,  with  a  malicious  smile. 

"  If  you  really  want  Cecil  to  marry  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  all 
your  finesse,  all  your  diplomacy  will  be  required.  I  foresee 
thirty  thousand  trembling  in  the  balance.  She  is  inclined  to 
rebel — talks  about  being  sold  and  the  rest  of  it.  As  I  said  to 
herself,  in  spite  of  her  admirable  bringing  up,  her  ideas  on  some 
subjects  are  in  a  deplorably  crude  and  primitive  state." 

"  She  sJiall  marry  Sir  Arthur,"  the  earl  responded  serenely  ; 
"it  is  written — it  is  destiny.  Her  ideas  have  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  it  ;  and  if  there  be  any  point  of  worldly  hardness 
and  polish  which  Lady  Ruth  may  have  omitted,  who  so  compe- 
tent as  you,  my  dear  Ginevra,  to  teach  it  ?  I  am  at  ])eace — 
my  only  child  is  in  safe  hanils.  Write  out  your  list  quickly,  my 
dear.     I  shall  be  late  as  it  is." 

His  niece  laughed,  but  her  eyes  flashed  a  little.  It  was  dia- 
mond cut  dianiond  always  between  the  worldly  uncle  and  quite 
as  worldly  niece,  and  yet  in  their  secret  hearts  they  liked  each 
other,  and  suited  each  other  well. 

Lady  Cecil  reached  the  school-room.  Lessons  were  just 
ended,  and  Miss  Herncastle  stood  looking  wearily  out  of  the 
window  at  the  mellow  afternoon  radiance — fagged  and  pale. 
Lady  Cecil  glanced  at  her  comjiassionately. 

"You  look  wearied  to  death,  Miss  Herncastle;  I  am  afraid 
you  find  the  Misses  Dalrymple  terrible  Hide  Neros  in  i)inafores. 
Do  go  out  for  a  walk,  and  Pearl  and  Pansy  and  I  will  go  and 
dress  dolls  under  tiie  trees." 

"  But,  Lady  Dangerfield—" 

"  Lady  Dangerfield  is  in  the  drawing  room  ;  you  can  ask  her 
if  you  choose — she  will  not  object.  I  am  sure  you  need  a 
walk.     Come,  children,  and  fetch  your  whole  family  of  dolls." 

Miss  Herncastle  obtained  i)ermission  to  take  a  walk,  and  set 
out.  As  she  passed  down  the  noble  arching  avenue  she  espied 
the  earl's  daughter  and  the  twins  solemnly  seated  under  a  big 
beech,  sewing  for  their  lives.  Lady  Cecil  looked  uj),  smiled, 
and  nodded  approval  from  her  work.  Very  lovely  she  looked, 
the  amber  sunshine  shifting  down  through  the  green  and  ruby 
leaves  on  her  loose-floating,  abundant  brown  hair,  flashing  back 


258 


*'ONCE  MORE   THE   GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS:' 


i\ 


i, :  I 


Li 


from  that  other  amber  siinsliine  in  her  hazel  cjes,  froni  the 
sweet  smiling  lips,  from  the  cait  dc  nil  dress  with  its  inmnner- 
able  lloimces  and  hillings,  its  point-lace  collar,  and  climy  bor- 
derings.  In  that  shimmering  robe,  ap.l  with  a  long  spray  of 
tangled  ivy  buds  in  her  hair,  she  mi^^'  t  have  been  i)ainted  for 
litania,  Queen  of  the  Fairies,  herself. 

Beautiful   as   a  vision — the   belle    of  tlie  season — sought, 
courted,  caressed,  beloved  1)y  all.      Did  the  contrast  strike 
somber  Miss  Ilerncastle,  in  her  plain  brown  merino  dress,  ugly 
of  texture,  of  color,  of  make,  walking  in  the  dust  as  she  went, 
by?     The  after  days  told. 

The  high  red  sun  droi)ped  half  an  hour  lower.  The  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  invited  for  my  lady's  lawn  party  would  be 
here  presently  now,  and  one  of  the  twins'  nire  dolls,  big  and 
little,  had  had  a  new  dress  finished.  Lady  Cecil  looked  up, 
and  said  she  must  go.  The  twins  pleaded  piteously  for  one 
game  of  "  tag,"  and  "  Aunt  Cecil"  consented.  The  dolls  were 
flung  down  in  an  ignominious  heap,  and  Lady  Cecil  Hew  in  chase 
of  the  children  with  a  /est,  that  for  the  moment  equaled  their 
own.  And  thus  it  was,  lh;shed,  breathless,  dishevelled,  laugh- 
ing, romping  like  a  girl  of  twelve,  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  saw  her 
first. 

The  earl  had  been  late — it  was  the  earl's  inevitable  fate  to 
be  late  on  every  occasion  in  life — and  the  great  Cornish  baronet 
had  driven  up  to  Scarswood  in  a  lly  like  any  ordinary  mortal. 
Through  a  break  in  the  beeches,  her  clear  sweet  laugh  rang 
out  as  the  twins  pounced  u[)on  her,  and  made  her  their  cai)tive. 
All  aglow,  all  breathless,  she  came  fiill  u[)on  Sir  Arthur. 

He  was  laughing  from  sympathy  with  that  merry  peal.  If 
she  had  striven  for  a  thousand  years  to  bewitch  him  she  could 
never  have  succeeded  half  so  well  as  in  this  n":oment,  when  she 
was  not  thinking  of  him  at  all.  She  stopped  short — still  laugh- 
ing, blushing  and  aghast. 
•   "  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  I  believe  ?" 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  bareheaded  before  her — tall, 
noble,  gravely  smiling,  as  Lady  Cecil  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  I  am  sure.  Did  you  not  meet — 
Pansy,  be  quiet — did  you  not  meet  papa?  He  left  here  to  go 
to  the  station." 

*'  1  did  not  meet  him.  Probably  I  passed  him,  for  I  lei't  the 
station  immediately." 

"Then  permit  me  to  welcome  you  in  his  stead.  Ah  1  here 
is  papa  now,  and  Major  Franklard." 


'''^^ 


'*ONCE  MORE   THE   GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS:*    259 


"1.  tne 

IMIIKT- 

ly  bor- 
!iay  of 
ted  for 


"it 


-tall, 


I 


A  second  fly  drove  up,  and  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  her 
life,  Lady  Cecil  Clive  w.-'s  glad  to  see  Major  Frankland.  It 
was  a  rare — a  very  rare  thii^^r— for  La  Rcine  Blmuiic,  trained 
into  perfect  high  bred  self-posses-: ion  by  three  London  seasons, 
to  feel  a  touch  of  embarrassment  \\\  the  presence  of  any  one, 
3ing  or  kaiser,  but  she  felt  it  now. 

"  JMy  dear  boy — my  dear  Arthur  !  "  The  earl  sprang  out 
an(.'  shook  the  young  baronet's  hand  with  effusion.  Such  a 
contretemps — just  a  moment  too  late — I  saw  you  drive  off,  and 
I  returned  with  Frankland.  Major  Frankland,  of  the  — th 
Lancers — Sir  Arthur  Trcgcnna." 

The  two  gentlemen  lifted  their  hats.  Sir  Arthur  rather  stiffly, 
and  under  restraint — the  gallant,  whiskered  major  with  that 
cliarming  ease  and  grace  whicn  had  years  ago  won  away  Ginevra 
DcUiLierUeld's  heart. 

"  Aw,  my  dear  Lady  Cecil — chawmed  to  see  you  agam,  and 
looking  so  well — so  very  well ;  but  then  we  all  know,  to  our 
cost.  La  Reine  Blanche  invariably  looks  her  best  on  every  oc- 
casion. And  here  comes  our  chawming  hostess.  Aw,  Lady 
Dangerfield,  so  happy  to  meet  you  once  more.  London  has 
been  a  perfect  desert — a-howling-aw — wilderness,  I  assure  you, 
since  two  of  its  fairest  flowers  have  ceased-aw — to  bloom  !" 

And  then  the  mistress  of  Scarswood  was  greeting  and  wel- 
coming ner  guests,  and  the  fust  detachment  of  the  lawn  i)arty 
began  to  arrive,  and  in  the  bustle  Lady  Cecil  made  good  her 
escape. 

The  travelers  were  shown  to  their  rooms.  She  heard  them 
go  past — heard  the  major's  aggravating  half  lisp,  half  drawl.  Sir 
Arthur's  deep,  grave  tones,  and  clenched  one  little  hand  where 
it  lay  on  the  window  sill,  and  set  her  scarlet  lips  hard. 

"The  sultan  has  come,  and  his  slave  must  wait  until  it  pleases 
him  to  throw  the  handkerchief.  He  comes  here  to  insi)ect  me 
as  he  might  a  horse,  or  a  house  he  wanted  to  buy ;  and  if  I  suit 
him,  1  am  to  be  bought.  If  I  do  not — Oh,  pajta  !  papa  1  how 
could  you  subject  i>ie  to  so  shameful  an  ordeal  ?  " 

An  imperious  tap  at  the  door,  an  imperious  voice  without : 

"  Queenie  !  Queenie  !  are  you  dead  ?     Open  the  door." 

Lady  Cecil  oi)ened.  My  lady,  all  summery  muslin,  Val- 
enciennes lace,  and  yellow  roses,  ai)[)eared,  her  black  eyes 
alight,  her  cheeks  glowing  with  pleasure  and  liijuiil  rouge. 

"Come,  Qupcnie  ;  you  are  to  be  on  the  opposite  side — first 
red,  and  all  that.  Every  one  has  come,  and  Sir  Arthur  and  the 
major  arc  on  the  croquet  ground.     Really,  Cecil,  Sir  Arthui 


260    *''ONCE  MORE   THE  -GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLSr 


A. 


iFf ' 


;.     • 

m 

a. 

?  1 

u 

'"5 

i 

ti    ., 

isn't  bad  looking — that  is  to  say,  if  he  'vcre  not  beside  Jasper. 
Comparisons  are  odious,  and  beside  him — " 

"Of  course,  beside  him,  the  Angel  Clabriel,  if  he  were  to  de- 
scend, would  ai)pear  to  disadvantage.  Ginevra,  Sir  Arthur 
looks  as  if  he  had  common-sense,  at  least ;  more  than  I  can  say 
for  your  pet  military  poodle.  Poor  little  Bijou  !  if  he  only 
knew  what  a  dangerous  rival  has  come  to  oust  him," 

"Don't  be  sarcastic,  Queenie,"  her  cousin  answered,  with 
perfect  good  temper  ;  "it's  the  worst  thing  can  possibly  be  said 
of  a  girl.  Makes  men  afraid  of  her,  you  know.  You  may  take 
Sir  Arthur  on  your  side  ;  the  major,  of  course,  is  on  mine  ;  and 
we  shall  crociuet  you  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  He  plays  as  he 
does  everything — exciuisitely." 

They  descended  together  to  the  croquet  ground — an  admir- 
able foil — blonde  and  brunette.  Lady  Dangerlield  knew  it,  and 
made  the  most  of  it,  as  she  did  everything  else. 

Sir  Arthu'  did  not  play.  He  took  a  seat  with  the  earl  on  the 
limit  of  the  croquet  ground,  and  talked  and  watched  the  [)layers. 
The  major  md  Lady  Dangerlield  played  a  vigorous  game,  send- 
ing their  adversaries'  balls  to  the  farthest  limits  of  space,  and 
never  missing  a  hoop.  Lady  Cecil  played  abominably ;  her 
side  was  beaten  ingloriously  in  every  game.  How  could  she 
play? — how  could  she  do  anything,  knowing,  feeling,  that  the 
eyes  of  Sir  Arthur  were  upon  her,  while  he  calmly  deliberated 
whether  or  no  she  were  fitted  to  be  his  wife. 

Lady  Cecil  was  right.  Sir  Arthur's  eyes  were  upon  her,  and 
Sir  Arthur  was  speculating  as  to  whether  or  no  she  was  litted 
to  be  his  wife.  What  a  fliir,  sweet,  proud  face  it  was;  how 
much  soul  in  the  softly  lustrous  eyes  ;  how  much  gentleness, 
goodness,  about  the  perfect  lips.  How  like  a  bright,  hap|)y 
child  slie  had  looked  as  he  had  seen  her  first  with  brown  hair 
flying,  brown  eyes  dancing,  rose  lips  laughing,  and  pearl  cheeks 
softly  flushed,  in  that  bewitching  game  of  romps.  Could  any  one 
who  looked  like  that — wlio  loved  little  children  and  played  with 
them,  a  very  child  herself,  be  the  cold-blooded  coquette,  tlie 
vain  tlirt,  who  trampled  on  hearts  wholesale,  for  her  selfish  grati- 
cation  ?  No,  no,  a  hundred  times  no  !  Such  a  fiice  must  mir- 
ror a  pure  and  spotless  soul ;  eyes  like  these  took  their  kind- 
ness and  their  sweetness  from  a  gentle  and  womanly  heart. 

"Her  loveliness  makes  men  her  captives.  How  can  she  be 
blamed  for  that  ?  "  he  thought.  He  was  beginning  to  plead  for 
her  already  ;  the  spell  of  that  "  angel  face,"  which  had  ensnared 
BO  many,  was  beginning  to  throw  its  glamour  over  him.     And 


**ONCE  MORE   THE   GATE  BEHIND  ME  FALLS."    26 1 


and 


I 


f 


1 


he  was  predisposed  to  be  pleased.  He  wantt.-d  to  fulfill  his 
father's  dying  wish  and  many  his  old  friend's  daughter. 

Lady  Cecil's  party  exjjerienced  a  third  disastrous  defeat,  and 
by  that  time  the  summer  dusk  had  f^dlen,  and  the  countless  stars 
were  out.  Then  one  of  the  young  ladies  from  the  rectory — 
young  ladies  from  the  rectory  are  always  useful — went  into  the 
house  and  played  some  delicious  (ierman  waltzes,  die  music 
floating  from  four  high  windows,  open  from  floor  to  ceiling. 
Lady  Cecil  waltzed  with  the  rector's  tall  son,  with  Squire  Tal- 
bot from  Morecanibe,  with  Major  Frankland  even,  when  tliat 
splendid  ofificjr  at  last  left  his  liege  lady's  side.  If  she  had 
never  flirted  before,  she  flirted  with  Sir  Arthurs  eyes  upon  her. 

"  He  shall  take  me  for  what  I  am  if  he  takes  me  at  all,"  she 
thought.     "  I  shall  never  jilay  the  hypocrite  to  entrap  him." 

What  did  Sir  Arthiu-  tliink,  sitting  there,  looking  on  with 
grave  eyes?  He  did  not  dance,  he  did  not  crotjuet,  he  didn't 
talk  much  ;  he  was  not  in  any  way  a  carpet  knight,  or  an  orna- 
ment of  society.  Frivolous  people  like  Lady  Dangerfleld  were 
apt  to  be  afraid  of  him.  Those  calm,  i)assionless  gray  eyes 
looked  at  you  with  so  earnest  a  light  tliat  you  were  apt  to 
shrink  under  them,  feeling  what  a  foolish,  empty-headed  sort  of 
person  you  were — a  man  to  be  respected,  beyond  doubt — a 
man  not  so  easily  to  be  liked. 

What  did  he  think  ?  Under  the  stars  she  looked  very  lovely, 
and  loveliness  in  woman  covereth  a  multitude  of  sins.  She 
waltzed  with  them  all,  and  Sir  Arthur  was  one  of  those  uncivi- 
lized beings  you  meet  now  and  then  who  do  not  like  waltzing. 
Your  bride  elect  in  the  arms  of  another  man,  even  though  it 
de  in  a  round  dance,  is  to  your  ill-trained  mind  a  jarring  and 
indelicate  sight.  She  waltzed  until  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her 
eyes  shone  like  brown  diamonds,  and  her  clear,  soft  voice  and 
laugh  rang  out  for  all.  What  did  he  think  ?  The  earl  frowned 
inwardly — only  inwardly  ;  anything  so  distiguring  as  a  frown 
never  really  appeared  upon  his  placid,  well-trained  face. 
"Wrinkles  came  soon  enough  of  thciuselves,"  he  was  wont  to 
say  ;  "  no  need  to  hasten  them  on  scowling  at  a  world  you  can- 
not improve." 

There  came  a  call,  "  supper,"  and  die  waltzing  ended.  The 
dancers  paired  off  and  defiled  into  the  su|)per  room. 

"The  tocsin  of  the  soul,  the  dinner  bell,"  laughed  Lady 
Cecil ;  "  and  what  with  three  games  of  croquet  and  four  waltzes 
I  am  both  hungry  and  fatigued." 

And  then  the  rector's  tall,  handsome  son — a  'Varsity  man — 


I 


262 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


itij' 


with  that  flirting  manner  some  young  men  cultivate,  said  some- 
thing in  a  \vhispi!r  that  looked  tender,  iiowever  it  might  sound. 
Sir  Arthur's  gray  eyes  saw  it  all.  "Was  this  flirting  ? — was  La 
Rc'we  Blanche  at  her  flivorite  game  ? 

They  went  into  the  brilliantly  lighted  dining-room,  where  an 
Aberdeen  salmon,  ft  la  vuryivtoise,  lay  reposing  tranc|uilly  in  a 
bed  of  greenery  and  imiwns,  where  lobster  salad,  and  cold 
chicken,  and  pine-apple  cream,  and  Moselle  and  strawberries^ 
looked  like  an  ejiicurean  picture  under  softly  abundant  gasaliers. 

].ady  Cecil  still  kept  her  victim,  the  tall,  slim  college  man 
by  her  side,  and  they  devoted  themselves  to  one  another  very 
exclusively.  They  were  probably  discoursing  the  rival  merits 
of  salmon  and  lobster  salad,  but  they  looked  as  if  they  were 
gently  murmuring, 

"  How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  ?  " 

Sir  Arthur  had  the  post  of  honor  on  the  right  of  his  hostess 
■ — Major  Frankland  supi)orted  her  on  the  left.  Sir  l*eter  was 
not  present — he  sat  solitary  and  alone  in  his  study,  like  an  oyster 
in  its  shell,  while  feasting  and  merry-making  went  on  aiound 
him.  And  when  the  great  ormolu  and  malachite  clock  over 
the  mantel  struck  the  half  hour  after  eleven,  the  comi^any  dis- 
persed, and  the  guests  sought  their  own  rooms.  What  ditl  Sir 
Arthur  think,  as  he  bade  the  earl's  fair  daughter  good-night,  and 
watched  her  float  away  in  her  cau  dc  nil  dress  up  the  stairs  and 
disappear  in  a  silvery  shower  of  moonrays  ?  That  impassiv; 
face  of  his  gave  no  sign. 


"if. 


m 


-♦^ 


CHAPTER  VI. 


SOMETHING   VERY   STRANGE. 


ND  your  picnic  is  inevitable,  I  suppose.  Lady  Danger- 
field  ;  and  one  must  go  and  grill  alive,  and  yawn  all 
day,  and  get  one's  complexion  destroyed  with  the  boil- 
ing seaside  sun,  and  call  it  pleasure.  You  mean  well, 
Ginevra,  I  dare  say,  b'lt  your  ceaseless  pleasure  excursions  grow 
to  be  ceaseless  bores." 

Lady  Cecil  said  all  this  in  the  slowest,  softest,  sleepiest,  lazi- 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


263 


4 


est  possible  tone  of  vrije.  She  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  in  a  loose, 
white  morning  robe,  her  bronze  hair  all  damp,  and  loose, 
and  out  of  curl,  a  book  in  her  hand,  and  her  gold-brown  eyes 
full  of  lazy  languor. 

Lady  Dangerfield,  got  up  in  elaborate  walking  costume,  had 
just  bustled  in — she  always  bustled  and  made  a  noise — and  had 
burst  forth  in  a  torrent  of  reproaches  at  finding  her  indolent 
cousin  still  in  a  state  of  semi-undress. 

*'  You  laziest,  you  most  indolent  of  mortals  !  get  up  instantly 
and  bo  off  and  dress.  The  carriages  will  be  here  in  half  an 
hour — twenty  minutes  I  tell  you — and  you  haven't  one  thing 
on.  The  picnic  is  inevitable,  and  seeing  you  were  one  of  the 
first  to  organize  it,  I  think  it  is  a  little  too  disgraceful  to  fmd 
you  like  this  at  the  last  moment." 

'*  Like  this  is  so  very  comfortable  though,  Ginevra.  My 
novel  is  reaily  interesting.  Countess  Aglae,  on  the  eve  of  hev 
marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Crowndiamonds,  runs  away  with  a 
charming  young  head-groom,  whose  ordinary  conversation  reads 
like  blank  verse.  Well  if  I  must  I  must,  I  suppose."  She 
threw  aside  her  novel  and  arose.  "  It  is  so  preposterously  fine 
and  sunsliiny  this  morning,  that  I  am  certain  we  will  have  a 
storm  before  night,  and  come  home  drenched.  Half  an  hour 
did  you  say,  Ginevra,  before  we  start  ?  Tranquillize  your  nerves 
then,  dear — I  shall  be  ready  in  half  the  time." 

A  week  had  passed  since  the  afternoon  of  Sir  Arthur's  and 
Major  Frankland's  arrival,  and  a  very  animated  week  it  had 
been.  Lady  Dangerfield  never  grew  weary  in  well-doing;  her 
fertile  brain  originated  pleasure  party  after  pleasure  party,  with 
an  assiduity  worthy  a  better  cause.  There  had  been  long  ex- 
cursions to  ruins,  there  had  been  a  day's  visit  to  a  distant  gypsy 
encampment,  there  had  been  lawn  billiards,  boating  parties, 
croquet,  and  drives  and  gallops  to  every  interesting  spot  for 
miles  around.  There  had  been  Fortnum  &  Mason's  hampers, 
chickens  and  chain i)agne,/«/ci-  de  fois  gras,  and  claret  cup,  on 
land  and  sea,  and  now  a  genuine  old-fashioned  i)icnic  to  the 
seashore  was  under  way  ;  Fortnum  &  Mason  were  voted  a 
nuisance  ;  they  would  boil  their  own  kettle  on  the  sands,  and 
make  their  own  tea,  true  gypsy  style,  dispense  with  the  tall  gen- 
tleman in  plush  and  prize  calves  from  the  Hall,  and  wait  upon 
themselves.  _  My  lady,  ever  on  the  alert  for  something  new, 
proposed  this,  and  had  been  warmly  seconded  on  all  sides. 

A  week  had  passed  since  Sir  Arthur's  arrival — seven  long 
summer  days  and  nights  under  the  same  roof  with  Lady  Cecil, 


r 


i 

■■ 


i^ 


11 


! 


^inJ 


i: .  .'I :  ^ 


■i     S 


264 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


the  greates'  flirt  of  the  season.  ^^  x'  d*'  .  e  think  of  her  by 
this  time?  No  one  could  have  toK'  :^i  ihe  young  laily,  cer- 
tainly, to  whom  his  manner  was  caliii,  m/!;v.  and  genial,  but 
as  far  removed  from  her  experience  01  \.;ve-n  "•'  ing,  as  it  was 
possible  to  imagine.  Not  her  father,  watching  ivn,  furtively, 
impatiently;  he  bore  himself  towards  her  with  the  same  distant, 
somewhat  stiff  courtesv  he  showed  his  hostess  and  the  other 
ladies  who  visited  Scarswood. 

How  was  it  going  to  end  ?  Would  he  pr-opose,  or  would  he, 
after  another  week  or  so,  say,  "  Good-by,  Lady  Cecil,"  in  the 
same  cool,  grave,  unsmiling  way  in  wliich  he  now  said  good- 
morning  and  good-night  ?  It  was  such  an  inscrutable  face,  that 
face  of  his,  that  it  told  nothing.  This  solemn,  uplifted  manner, 
those  grave  tones  speaking  grave  sentences,  might  be  his  way 
of  making  love,  for  all  the  earl  knew. 

For  Cecil  herself,  she  liked  it,  and  liked  him  all  the  better  for 
letting  her  so  tranquilly  alone.  All  women — the  most  hardened 
coquette  among  them — like  men  best  who  don't  lower  their  ilag 
at  once.  She  was  bewitchingly  pretty,  and  fresh  and  bright, 
and  knew  it  beyond  doubt ;  but  as  far  as  she  could  see,  all  her 
beauty,  and  brightness,  and  far-cinations  were  so  many  arrows 
tb.at  glanced  ofTliis  polished  chain-mail  armor.  She  was  singu- 
larly free  from  vanity ;  in  a  calm  way  she  was  conscious  of  her 
own  great  beauty,  as  she  was  proud  of  her  old  name,  but  the 
smallness  of  personal  conceit  she  had  never  felt.  And  reas- 
sured by  Sir  Arthur's  manner,  she  let  herself  grow  friendly,  and 
pleasant,  and  fcimiliar,  as  it  was  in  her  genial  nature  to  be.  She 
got  down  off  her  stilts,  and  walked  with  him,  and  talked  with 
him,  and  found,  when  proj^erly  drawn  out,  he  could  talk  well. 
He  could  tell  her,  by  the  hou.  together,  of  fair,  foreign  lands, 
of  the  East — every  inch  of  which  he  knew — every  sacred  place 
of  which  he  had  visited.  He  could  tell  her  (jf  Australia  a:id  its 
wonderful  hidden  wealth — k->S.  bright,  busy,  trans  Atlantic  cities 
— of  California,  where  he  had  lived  for  months  among  camps 
and  mines,  and  the  reckless  men,  the  swee[)ings  of  the  world, 
who  lly  there  for  safety  or  for  gold. 

He  told  her  of  Algiers,  where  he  had  wintered  last  year,  and 
of  how  narrowly  his  life  had  been  saved.  He  had  had  many 
hair-breadth  escapes,  but  none  so  critical  as  this.  Lost  on  the 
desert,  a  ilock  of  wild  Bedouins,  intlameil  with  ra[)ine  and  liijuor, 
had  swept  down  upon  him  with  shrill  cries.  He  fought  aga:  >st 
terrible  odds  as  long  as  he  could,  tiien,  just  as  a  lance  head  iiad 
pierced  him,  a  horseman  had  ridden  down  like  the  wind,  and  with 


I 


'11 


i 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


265 


camps 
worUl, 


a  ringing  Englisli  cheer  had  laid  abort  him,  right  and  lefr,  like  a 
lion.  Wherever  that  Hashing  blade  fell,  an  Arab  bit  the  dust. 
Then,  faint  ant]  sick  from  loss  of  blood,  he  reeled  from  the 
saddle,  and  opened  his  eyes  in  his  own  quarters  in  Algiers. 

•'  And  the  gallant  Englishman  who  saved  you  ?  "  Lady  Cecil 
breathlessly  asked. 

Sir  Arthur  smiled. 

"The  gallant  Englishman  was  an  Irishman.  A  very  tiger  to 
fight.  His  name  among  the  Arabs  was  as  great  a  source  of 
dread  as  thatof  Coeur  de  Lion  to  the  Saracens,  or  Black  Dou^-- 
las  to  the  Lowland.  He  was  a  captain  of  Chasseurs,  his  name, 
O'Donnell." 

She  was  sittingbeneath  the  open  window.  As  he  pronounced 
the  name  he  looked  at  her,  but  she  had  turned  suddenly  and 
was  gazing  steadfastly  at  the  blue  summer  sky.  He  looked  at 
her,  then  spoke  again,  slowly. 

"And  he  knew jy;/<,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I^ady  Cecil's  tones  had  changed  a  little;  but  she 
turned  now,  and  the  brown  eyes  met  the  gray  ones  (juite  calmly. 
"Yes,  1  did  once  know  a  Redmond  O'Donnell — six  jears  ago, 
I  think — in  Ireland.     Hii  mentioned  knowing  me,  did  he?" 

"l>y  the  merest  chance.  In  his  quarters  one  day  I  came 
across  a  book,  a  very  handsome  copy  of  '  Marmion,'  with  }Our 
name  on  the  fly-leaf.  You  had  lent  it  to  him,  it  appeared,  and 
it  had  never  been  returned." 

"  Captain  O'Donnell  seems  fated  to  save  people's  lives,"  said 
Lady  Cecil,  laughing  ;  "  he  saved  mine  from  drowning.  Did 
he  tell  you  of  it  ?  No  ?  That  is  like  his  reticence.  Are  you 
aware  he  is  in  England  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  am  not  surprised  to  hear  it,  though.  He  mentioned 
casually  meaning  to  go  out  to  America — to  New  Orleans — for 
his  sister,  and  fetch  her  over,  and  leave  her  with  their  friends  in 
France.  A  fine  fellow — a  brave  fellow — a  worthy  descendant 
of  his  once  princely  house." 

Lady  Cecil  said  nothing,  but  that  night  at  parting  she  gave 
Sir  Arthur  her  hand  with  a  kindly  cordiality  she  had  never  shown 
before. 

"  He  grows  on  one,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  to  her  cousin. 
"  I  begin  to  like  him." 

Ginevra  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"So  much  the  better,  dear,  for  all  concerned.     Thirty  thou- 
sand a  year  is  a  powerful  inducement,  1  must  confess  ;  though 
he  doesn't  grow  on  me.     He's  a  prig,  as  I  said  before — a  sol- 
13 


266 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE, 


Fll; 


m. 


I 


cnin  pedantic  prig — who  glowers  one  out  of  countenance  with 
his  great,  solemn,  owl  eyes,  and  who  can  neitlier  ihmre  nor 
phiy  croquet,  who  doesn't  know  one  g;une  oi>  the  cards,  and 
who  invariably  treads  on  one's  train.  1  hate  clumsy  men,  and 
I'm  afraid  1  shall  hate  my  future  cousin-in  law." 

The  solemn,  owl  eyes  Lady  Dangerheld  spoke  of  irritated 
her  beyond  measure  by  the  way  in  which  they  watched  her  an- 
imated flirtation  with  Major  I'Yankland.  A  llirting  married 
woman  was  an  anomaly  the  tall  Cornish  baronet  could  in  no 
wise  understand.  On  this  point  he  was  more  savagely  nnciv- 
ili/ied  than  even  Lady  Cecil  herself  Ilis  dark  eyes  looked  in 
grave  wonder  and  disap|)robation  at  what  went  on  before  them 
—  Major  Frankland  making  love  h  la  mode  to  Laily  Danger- 
field,  while  Lady  Dangerheld's  husband  either  shut  himself  up 
in  his  study  with  his  friends,  the  black  beetles,  or  else  glared  in 
impotent  jealous  wrath  at  his  wife  and  her  attendant  cavalier. 

He  and  Lady  Cecil  had  grown  friends  surely  and  impercep- 
tibly. They  were  a  great  deal  together,  and  the  noble  brow  of 
my  Earl  of  Ruysland  began  to  clear.  Cecil  knew  what  she 
was  about,  of  course  ;  she  wasn't  going  to  fail  at  his  feet  the 
instant  he  arrived  ;  if  he  were  a  true  knight  he  would  be  willing 
to  woo  and  win  so  fair  a  lady.  With  her  charming  face  to 
plead  her  cause,  his  charming  fortune  to  [)lead  his,  there  could 
be  no  manner  of  doubt  as  to  the  issue. 

Sir  ArtliUr,  Lady  Cecil,  the  carl,  and  a  young  lady  in  apple- 
green  muslin  went  together  i:i  the  barouche.  Lady  Danger- 
lield  drove  Major  Frankland  in  her  pony  ])haeton.  The  rest 
of  the  young  ladies  followed  in  a  sorond  barouche,  with  two 
cavaliers  on  horseback.  The  only  mairied  lady  of  the  i)arty 
being  the  baronet's  wife — who  played  chai)eivMie  and  propri- 
ety !  Sir  Peter  had  discovered  a  new  spec'wien  of  the  Saturina 
Piivonia  Major,  and  did  not  go. 

It  was  an  intensely  hot  day,  the  f.un  pouring  down  its  fiery 
heat  from  a  sky  as  deeply  blue  as  that  of  Italy — the  heat  (juiv- 
ering  in  a  white  mist  over  the  sea.  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  ; 
the  sea  lay  asleep,  one  vast  i)oiished  lake,  under  that  globe  of 
molten  gold. 

"  I  knew  we  would  grill  to  death — I  said  so,"  Lady  Cecil 
remarked;  "but  where  is  the  use  of  warning  Cinevra  when 
she  is  bent  upon  anything.  The  three  children  survived  the 
I'iery  I''urnace,  anid  we  may  survive  this,  but  I  doubt  it." 

'"Don't  be  so  plaintive,  Queenie,"  her  father  interposed; 
"  you'll  survive,  I  dare  say,  but  you  won't  have  a  shred  of  com- 


4 


f 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


267 


nance  with 
dance  nor 
cards,  and 
^  men,  and 

of  irritated 
led  her  an- 
ng  married 
:ould  in  no 
.gely  unciv- 
s  U)oked  in 
jcfore  them 
dy  Danger- 
hiniself  up 
se  glared  \\\ 
it  cavalier. 
I  injpercep- 
)blo  brow  of 
:w  what  she 
his  feet  the 
Id  be  willing 
ng  face   to 
there  could 


dy  in  apple- 
idy  Danger- 
The  rest 
le,  with  two 
of  the  party 
and  propri- 
the  Saturina 

)wn  its  fiery 
le  heat  (luiv- 
)f  air  stirred  ; 
hat  globe  of 

'  Lady  Cecil 
inevra  when 
survived  the 
ubt  it." 

interi)0sed  j 
.hred  of  com- 


plexion left.  You  blonde  •\vomen  never  can  stand  sunshine. 
Now  Ci inevra  is  the  hajipy  possessor  of  a  comi)lexion  which 
all  the  suns  of  ICquatorial  Africa  couldn't  darken  or  spoil. 
Seeing,"  this  sotto  toce,  "that  it's  made  up  of  /)'A///<-  (/c  Pcrle 
and  liijuid  rouge." 

'*  It  is  warm,"  Sir  Arthur  remarked,  looking  at  the  fair  lily 
face  beside  him  ;  "  and  there  is  not  a  tree,  nor  a  shrub  even,  to 
ward  it  off.  Suppose  we  go  in  search  of  verdure  and  shade,  as 
we  used  to  do  in  the  (ireat  Desert.  My  traveler  s  instinct 
tells  me  there  is  an  oasis  not  far  off." 

"  Yes ;  go  by  all  means,  Queenic,"  murmured  the  carl  ; 
•'  and  when  you  have  found  that  oasis  send  me  back  woril,  and 
I'll  join  you.  At  present  I  am  reduced  to  that  stale  in  which 
a  man's  brain  feels  like  melted  butter,  and  each  limb  several 
tons  weight.  I  shall  lie  down  here  on  the  sand  and  com})ose 
myself  to  balmy  slumber." 

Sir  Arthur  proffered  his  arm — T.ady  Cecil  took  it.  The  pic- 
nic party  were  i)retty  well  dispersed  by  this  time.  Ginevra 
and  the  major  and  one  of  the  rector's  daughters  had  put  off  to 
sea  in  a  little  boat ;  Squire  Talbot  was  making  himself  agreea- 
ble to  the  young  lady  in  apple-green  muslin  ;  the  rest  had 
])aired  off  like  the  procession  of  animals  in  a  child's  Noah's 
Ark.  As  well  go  on  an  exi)loring  expedition  with  Sir  Arthur 
as  remain  there  to  watch  the  slumbers  of  the  author  of  her  be- 
ing ;  and  so  the  Cornish  baronet  and  the  carl's  daughter 
started  in  search  of  the  oasis. 

It  was  not  unpleasant  being  alone  with  Sir  Arthur.  In  com- 
pany, as  a  rule,  he  had  nothing  whatever  to  say  ;  society  small- 
talk  was  as  Greek  to  him  ;  the  new  styles,  the  latest  fashiona- 
ble novel,  the  last  prima  donna  or  danseusc — all  these  topics 
were  Sanscrit  to  him,  or  thereabout.  But  alone  with  an  appre- 
ciative listener,  he  could  talk,  and  talk  well — not  of  his  travels 
alone — on  all  subjects.  He  spoke  of  things  high  above  the 
reach  of  most  of  the  men  she  had  ir.et,  and  Lady  Cecil  being  a 
young  lady  of  very  fair  intellect,  as  the  female  intellect  goes, 
appreciated  him,  was  interested,  delighted,  quite  breathless  in- 
deed in  her  absorption  at  times. 

They  had  gone  on  now  for  nearly  a  mile — very  slowly,  of 
course,  with  the  mid-day  thermometer  at  that  ridiculous  height 
in  the  shade,  where  shade  there  was  none.  He  was  telling  hei 
of  a  frightful  gorilla  hunt  he  had  once  had  in  Africa,  and  just  at 
the  moment  when   the  climax  was  reached  when   the  gorilla 


i;       :1 


268 


SOMETIIIKG    VERY  STRANGE. 


p 


^ 


r;'- 


caino  in  sight,  and  T.ady  Ci'cil's  c)vs  -w^A  lips  were  a[)art,  nnd 
breathless,  he  stoppeil  as  if  he  had  been  siiot, 

'*  Lady  Cecil,"  he  cried,  "  it  is  going  to  rain."  Patter  !  one 
great  dro[),  the  si/.c  of  a  pea,  fell  splash  on  Lady  Cecil's  startled, 
upturned  face.  The  sini  still  shone  da//ling1y,  but  a  huL^e 
black  thunder  cloud  had  gathered  over  their  heads,  threatening 
instant  explosion. 

Plump  came  another  great  drop  on  T-ady  Cecil's  pink  silk 
and  white  lace  parasol.  Oh,  such  a  llimsy  shield  fioni  a  rain 
storm,  and  Lady  Cecil's  Paris  hat  had  cost  ten  guineas  only 
the  week  before,  and  Lady  Cecil's  sunmier  dress  was  of  Swiss 
muslin  and  lace,  and  her  bron/.e  slippers  with  their  gay  rosettes, 
delightful  for  dry  sand  and  sunshine,  but  not  to  be  thought  of 
in  connection  with  a  summer  shower. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  she  exclaimed.  "I  don't  mind  get- 
ting my  death  of  cold  in  a  drenching,  but  to  go  back  and  face 
the  rest,  sheltered,  no  doubt,  by  the  carriages, — all  dri[)ping 
and  drowned — no.  Sir  Arthur,  I  can't  do  that." 

Sir  Arthur  had  been  scanning  the  hori/on  with  eagle  glance. 

"  I  see  a  house,"  he  said  ;  "  at  least  1  sec  a  tall  chimney, 
and  where  there  is  a  chimney  there  must  be  shelter.  Let  us 
make  for  it,  Lady  Cecil — we  can  reach  it  in  five  minutes,  if  we 
run.     Can  you  run  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  can  run,"  answered  La  Rcinc  Blanche.  "  What 
a  question  for  you  to  ask,  of  all  people,  as  though  you  didn't 
stand  and  laugh  at  me  the  afternoon  you  arrivetl,  romping  like 
a  lunatic  with  Ginevra's  children.  Oh,  dear!  how  fast  the 
drops  are  coming.  Now,  then.  Si  Arthur — a  fair  field  and  no 
favor  I " 

And  then,  with  her  clear,  merry  laugh,  the  haughty,  hand- 
some belle  of  last  season  gathered  up  her  flowing,  Ihmsy  skirts, 
bowed  her  bright  head,  and  sped  away  like  a  deer  before  the 
storm.  Sir  Arthur  ran,  too  ;  one  may  be  never  so  dignified, 
and  yet  scamper  for  their  lives  before  a  thunder  storm.  And 
Lady  Cecil  laughed,  and  Sir  Arthur  laughed,  and  faster,  faster, 
faster,  fell  the  light  black  drops,  and  twenty  years  of  ordinary 
acciuaintance  could  not  nave  brought  them  so  near  together  as 
that  hour.  On  and  on,  fiister  and  yet  faster,  the  rain  pursuing 
them  like  an  avenging  fury,  a  great  peal  of  thunder  booming 
above  their  heads.  Blacker  and  bigger  that  great  cloud  grows  ; 
patter,  patter,  falls  the  rain  ;  it  will  be  down  in  torrents  di- 
rectly. There  is  a  Hash  blindingly  brii^ht,  and  then — Heaven 
be  praised  ! — the  tall  chimney  is  reached,  and  it  prove.'}  to  be  a 


»-*• 


I 


SOMETiriNG    VFRY  STRANGE. 


269 


[lart,  and 

tcr !  one 
\  startled, 
:  a  huge 
reatcning 

pink  silk 
)iii  a  rain 
K'as  only 
of  Swiss 
rosettes, 
lought  of 

nind  gct- 
and  face 
dripping 

c  glance. 

chimney, 

Let  us 

Les,  if  wo 

"  What 

oil  didn't 

iping  like 

fast   the 

I  and  no 

itv,  hand- 

isy  skirts, 

»efore  the 

dignified, 

m.     And 

er,  fiister, 

ordinary 

i<reiher  as 

pursuing 

booming 

id  grows  ; 

irrents  di- 

— Heaven 

23  to  be  a 


house  !  Sir  Arthur  flings  wide  the  gate,  and  they  skurry  into 
the  garden,  thickly  sheltered  by  fir-trees,  and  pause  at  last,  wt;t, 
l)anting  breathlessly,  laughing,  and  look  into  each  other's  flushed 
faces. 

"I  knew  I  could  beat  you.  Sir  Arthur,"  is  the  frst  thing 
T-ady  Cecil  says,  as  well  as  she  can  for  her  throbbing  heart- 
beats. •'  Oh,  what  a  race !  And  my  poor  parasol,  and  my 
lovely  hat — spoiled  !  I  can't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,  Sir 
Arthur — it  was  a  beauty,  though  you  mayn't  have  had  soul 
enough  to  appreciate  it.     And  my  slippers — see  I  " 

She  held  out  one  slim  foot — oh,  Queenie,  was  it  coquetry? 
— and  the  beautiful  bron/e  slip[)ers,  the  gay  little  rosettes,  were 
ruined.  "And  your  ft^et  are  wet,"  Sir  Arthur  exclaimed; 
*'  that  is  worst  of  all.  And  there  is  danger  under  these  trees,  in 
this  lightning.  We  must  make  for  tht,"  house.  What  place  is 
this?" 

"  1  don't  know.  A  most  dismal  and  gruesome  place,  at 
least.  Good  gracious  !  what  a  flash ;  and — oh,  Heavens  I  Sir 
Arthur,  did  you  see  that  ?  " 

She  gave  a  little  scream  and  caught  his  arm. 

He  followed  her  eye — to  the.  front  windows  of  the  house — 
just  in  time  to  catch  a  glimjise  of  a  woman's  face  as  she  pulled 
some  one  hastily  away  from  the  jjanes. 

"  That  woman  !  do  you  know  her  ?"  he  asked. 

But  Lady  Cecil  stood  like  one  struck  dumb,  gazing  with  all 
her  eyes. 

*'  Do  you  know  her  ?"  .  e  repeated  in  suri)rise. 

"It  is— it  /j— it  is — Misr,  Herncastle  !  " 

"Well,  and  who  is  Miss  Herncastle?  Does  she  live 
here  ?  " 

"Live  here?"  She  looked  at  him.  "It  is  Ginevra's 
governess.  And  that  other  fiice— ^that  awful,  gibbering,  mouth- 
ing face  she  drew  away.  Ugh  ! "  she  shuddered  and  drew 
closer  to  him.  "  You  did  not  look  in  time  to  see  it,  but — of 
all  the  woeful,  unearthly  face?, — and  then  Miss  Herncastle 
came  and  dragged  it  away.  Now  what  in  the  wide  world 
briiigs  her  here?  " 

"Suppose  we  go  up  to  the  house  and  investigate.  Are  you 
aware  you  are  growing  wetter  every  instant?  Now,  Lady 
Cecil,  another  race." 

They  fled  through  the  rain — coming  down  in  buckets  full  by 
this  time — to  the*  house,  and  into  the  low  stone  porch.  Crash 
went  Sir  Arthur's  thunder  on  the  panels.     The  door  yielded  to 


2/0 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


that  tremendous  knock  and  flew  open,  and  they  stood  face  to 
face  V  A\  a  tall,  gaunt,  grim  okl  woman. 

"  1  beg  your  [)ard()n,  ma'am,"  the  haronet  said  ;  "  I  didn't 
mean  to  force  an  entrance  in  tliis  way.  We  got  caught  in  th<; 
storm,  and  lied  here  for  shelter.  Will  you  permit  this  lady  to 
enter  ?  " 

"As  you've  bust  the  door  open  a'n^ady,  I  sujjpose  you  may," 
retorted  the  old  woman,  in  no  very  hos[)i table  tone,  and  cast- 
ing no  very  hospitable  glance  on  the  two  intruders.  "  Come  in 
if  you  like,  and  sit  down." 

She  pointed  to  a  couple  of  wooden  chairs,  then  went  out  of 
the  room,  and  upstairs.  And  then  there  came  from  down 
those  stairs  a  long,  low,  wailing  cry,  so  wild,  so  unearthly,  so 
full  of  inhnite  misery,  that  Lady  Cecil,  with  a  second  cry  or 
alarm,  caught  hold  of  the  baronet's  arm  and  looked  at  him  with 
terrified  eyes. 

"  Did  ynu  hear  that  ?  "  she  gasped. 

Yes,  Sir  Arthur  had  heard  it — rather  discomposed  himself, 
lie  held  her  hand  and  listened.  Would  that  weird  cry  be  re- 
newed ?  No ;  a  heavy  door  slammed  above,  then  i)erfect  si- 
lence fell. 

"  Let  lis  leave  this  horrid  house  £nd  that  harsh-looking  old 
woman,"  exclaimed  Lady  Cecil.  **  I  believe  the  i)lace,  what- 
ever else  it  may  be,  is  uncanny.  Of  two  evils  1  prefer  the 
rain." 

"The  rain  is  by  no  means  the  lesser  evil  of  the  two.  I  fear 
T  must  be  arbitrary,  my  dear  Lady  Cecil,  and  insist  upon  your 
remaining  rt  least  teri  minutes  longer.  IJy  that  time  the  light- 
ning and  rain  will  have  ceased.  'I'hat  was  a  strange  cry — it 
sounded  like  one  in  great  pain." 

The  door  re-opened  and  the  old  woman  re-entered.  She 
glanced  sus[)iciously  at  the  lady  and  gentleman  sealed  by  the 
window. 

"  1  hope  my  raven  didn't  frighten  the  young  lady,"  she  said  ; 
"  he  do  scream  out  most  unearthly.  That  was  him  you  heard 
just  now." 

She  looked  at  them  again,  af  though  to  sec  whether  this 
;'«-atement  was  too  much  for  their  credulity. 

Sir  Arthur  smiled. 

"  It  did  startle  us  a  little,  I  confess.  Your  raven  has  a 
most  lugubrious  voice,  my  good  woman.  Will  you  tell  us  the 
name  of  this  place  ?  " 

''•Itbeliracken  Hollow." 


i 


SOMETHING    VERY  STRANGE. 


I  fear 


"  B.acken  Hollow,"  Lady  Cecil  repeated  the  name  in  a  still 
more  startled  voice. 

She  had  her  wish  then  sooner  than  she  had  expected— she 
was  in  Sir  Peter's  haunted  house. 

"Ay,  your  ladyship,  Bracken  Hollow,  a  main  and  lonesome 
])lacc — main  and  lonesome.  Ye  will  have  heard  of  it,  maybe. 
Ye're  from  the  Park  beyond  now,  Pll  lay?" 

"Yes,  we're  from  the  Park.  Do  you  live  here  in  this  lonely 
place  quite  by  yourself?  " 

"  Not  quite,  your  ladyship  ;  alone  most  of  the  time,  but  odd 
days  a  young  woman  from  tlie  town  comes  to  help  me  redd  up. 
Ye  will  hev  seen  her,  mayhap,  at  the  upper  window  as  ye  came 
in  ?  •' 

Again  she  looked  searchingly,  anxiously,  it  seemed  to  the 
baronet.     He  hastened  kindly  to  reassure  iicr. 

"  We  did  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  face  for  a  second  at  one  of  the 
u[)pcr  windows.  1  sujipose  you  are  rarely  intruded  upon  here 
as  we  intruded  upon  you  just  now  ?  " 

"Ay,  rarely,  rarely.  1  mind  once" — she  rocked  herself  to 
and  fro  and  looked  dreamily  before  her — "  I  mind  just  once 
afore  a  young  couple-  got  ketched  in  the  rain  as  ye  did,  and 
came  here  shelter.  I'hat  was  six  years  ago — six  long  years  ago 
— and  there's  been  many  sad  and  heavy  changes  since  then. 
He  was  rare  an'  handsome  that  day,  and  she — oh,  it's  a  queer 
world — a  queer  world." 

"  Lady  Cecil,  the  rain  has  ceased — I  think  we  may  venture 
forth  now.  Good-day  to  you,  madame,  and  thanks  for  the 
shelter  your  roof  has  afforded." 

He  laid  a  sovereign  in  her  skinny  hand.  She  arose,  dropped 
him  a  curtsey  and  watched  him  out  of  sight. 

"A  fine  gentleman  and  free  with  his  money,  and  she — ah, 
it's  a  beautiful  fiice,  and  it's  a  proud  face,  but  there's  always 
trouble  in  store  for  them  as  carries  their  heads  so  high,  and 
them  haughty  eyes  always  sheds  most  tears.  A  fine  gentleman 
and  a  beautiful  lady,  but  there's  trouble  in  store  for  them — 
trouble,  trouble." 


'II 


irl 


.,  :.4r 


Iff! 


272 


**  THERE  IS  MANY  A   SLIP^'   ETC, 


CIIArTKR  VII. 

"THEME    IS    MANY   A    SLIP,"    ETC. 

ADY  CKCI  L'S  wet  feet  were  considerably  wetter  before 
she  rcacl'.cd  the  picnic  party  on  the  sand.  JUit  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  and  she  huighed  good-naturedly  at 
all  Sir  Arthur's  anxious  predictions  of  tuture  coUls. 

"Mishaps  and  misadventures,  raiivstorn.:.  and  general  de- 
morali/alion  of  one's  raiment,  are  what  one  inevitably  expects 
at  picnics.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  for  lightning  storms  to 
come  up  in  the  midst  of  all  i)leasure  excursions.  1  wonder  if 
the  carriages  safely  protected  those  we  left  l)ehind  ;  and  above 
all,  I  hope  (linevra  and  her  parly  were  not  out  in  that  fairy 
bark  of  theirs  when  the  scjuall  arose." 

Hut  they  were.  Two  hours  had  elapsed  between  Sir  Arthur 
and  Lady  Cecil  leaving  th<.'  pleasure  party  and  their  return, 
and  durincj  those  two  hours  ilire  misfortunes  had  befallen.  The 
whole  picnic  party  were  assembled  in  one  excited  group  as  the 
two  wanderers  came  up  in  their  midst — the  major,  Lady  Dan- 
gerfield,  and  the  recror's  daughter,  >.Irip])ing  from  head  to  foot 
like  a  triad  (jf  sea  deities.     Lady  Cecil  gave  a  gasp. 

"Sir  Arthur !  Look  here  !  the  boat  has  upset !" 

The  boat  had.  Lady  Daiifj'-Mfield,  excitedly  and  eloquently 
poured  out  the  tale  of  their  hair-breadth  escape  as  they  ap- 
jToached. 

They  were  a  milc-and-a-half  or  thereabouts  from  the  shore 
when  the  thunder-storm  had  so  swiftly  arisen,  and  they  had 
turned  and  put  back  at  once.  But  before  they  had  gone  ten 
yards,  either  owing  to  the  major's  u)ismanagement,  or  the  sud- 
den striking  of  die  scpiall,  away  went  the  little  boat,  keel  up- 
permost, and  down  in'o  the  rufiled  sea,  with  ringing  shrieks  of 
alTright,  went  the  two  ladies  and  their  military  protector.  The 
major  coidd  swim— so  could  Miss  I lallan,  the  rector's  daugh- 
ter. I'iinging  one  arm  about  Lady  Dangerfield  the  major 
struck  out  for  the  shore,  but  an  awful  panic  had  seized  the 
baionet's  wife  ;  sudden  death  stared  her  in  the  face,  and  all 
jM'csence  of  mind  deserted  her.  She  struggled  in  the  major's 
clasp,  clinging  to  him  the  while,  ami  shrieking  frantically.  In 
vain  the  iiiajor  imjilored  and  entreated.  "  Lor  Heaven's  sake, 
(iinevra,  be  still  and  I  will  save  you."     la  vain  the  affrighted 


i 


•«  THERE  IS  MANY  A   SLIP,"   ETC. 


273 


er  before 

Uit  there 

1  redly  at 

colds. 

icrul  de- 

cxpccts 

tonus  to 

londcr  if 

id  above 

ihat  fairy 

ir  Arllnir 
r  return, 
tn.  The 
ip  as  the 
(\)'  Dan- 
d  to  fool 


loquently 
they  ap- 

he  shore 
[hey  had 
gone  ten 
the  sud- 
keel  iijj- 
hrieks  of 
)r.  The 
s  dar.gh- 
le  major 
ized  the 
,  and  all 
.'  major's 
illy.  In 
n's  sake, 
iffrighted 


.^ 


w 


party  on  the  shore,  forgetful  of  rain  now  descending  in  floods, 
added  their  shouted  prayers  to  hers.  In  vain  !  Lady  Danger- 
field  screamed  and  struggled,  and  tiie  i)ienic  party  was  in  a  fair 
^vay  of  winding  up  with  a  tragedy,  when  a  boat  skimming  like 
a  bird  over  the  dancing  waters,  and  skillfully  handled  by  one 
man,  shot  toward  them,  swift  and  straight  as  an  arrow. 

"  HoUl  on  there,"  a  voice  from  the  boat  shouted.  "  You'll 
go  down  to  a  dead  certainty  if  you  plunge  about  like  that  much 
longer." 

The  boat  flew  nearer.  The  man  leaned  over  and  picked  up 
my  lady.     Major  l-'rankland  scrambled  in  after. 

"  Rather  a  close  fmish  !  "  their  deliverer  said,  coolly.  "  You 
were  doing  your  best  to  make  the  bottom.  Are  you  all  right 
there,  sir?  Look  after  the  lady,  will  you?  I  think  she  is  go- 
ing to  faint." 

But  Lady  Dangerfield  did  not  faint — too  much  cold  water, 
perhaps.  She  glanced  at  her  preserver,  and  noticed,  even  in 
that  moment,  that  he  was  one  of  the  very  handsomest  men  it 
had  ever  been  her  good  ft)rtune  to  behold.  She  glanced  at 
herself  Oood  Heaven  !  half  the  exciuisite  abundance  of  curls 
and  braids  she  had  set  forth  with  that  morning  were  miles  out 
at  .sea,  her  complexion  was  a  wretched  ruin,  and  her  lovely 
pir.k  grenadine,  in  which  sh.e  had  looked  not.aday  over  twenty- 
live  one  short  hour  ago — that  \)ink  grenadine,  all  puflings,  and 
fnllings,  and  flounces — no,  words  are  poor  and  weak  to  de- 
scribe the  state  of  that  dress. 

The  boat,  flying  before  the  rising  wind,  made  the  shore  in 
five  minutes.  Lady  Dangerfield  had  not  spoken  one  word  ; 
tears  of  shame  and  morlilicalion  were  standing  in  her  eyes. 
Why,  oh,  why,  had  she  ever  come  on  this  wretched  trip — this 
miserable  picnic,  at  all?  What  business  had  Major  Frankland 
to  propose  going  out  in  a  boat  when  he  wasn't  capable  of 
handling  a  boat  ?  What  a  fright  she  must  look — hatless,  hair- 
less, comparatively  complexionless,  and  her  bright,  gossamer 
summer  skirts  clinging  about  her  like  wet  leeches?  What 
must  this  remarkably  good  looking  and  self-possessed  gentle- 
man sitting  yonder  steering,  think  of  her?  He  was  not  think- 
ing of  her  at  all ;  he  was  watching,  with  an  amused  face.  Miss 
Hallan  calmly  and  deliberately  swinini'.ig  ashore,  and  all  the 
other  people  standing  like  martyrs  in  the  rain. 

"Now,  then,  maoam  ! "  He  sprang  out  and  almost  lifted 
her  on  the  sands.  "  Very  sorry  for  your  mishap,  and  if  I  might 
presume  to  offer  a  suggestion,  would  reoommcr.d  an  instant 
12* 


L/ .  J. 


i  ^ 


if 

i   i 


i 


■ 


«l 


li   i^ 


ife 


i  if  11 


II  • 


274 


"  THERE  IS  MANY  A  SLIP;'  ETC. 


return  home  and  a  change  of  garments.     Good-day,  sir  ;  your 
boat's  all  right — floating  ashore." 

And  then  this  cool  gentleman,  without  waiting  for  thanks  or 
further  ado,  pushed  off  again,  and  skinuned  away  like  a  seagull. 

Such  a  plight  as  this  pleasure  party  stood  in  when  Sir  Arthur 
and  Lady  Cecil  rejoined  them  !  ^Vet  through,  all  their  fme 
feathers  spoiled — every  one  of  the  ladies  in  as  miserable  a 
plight  as  the  shipwrecked  party  themselves — every  uik' 
drenched  to  the  skin.  Lady  Cecil's  da»k  eyes,  full  of  sup- 
pressed fun,  were  lifted  to  the  baronet's ;  there  was  a  grave 
smile  even  at  the  corners  of  his  sedate  mouth.  It  was  won- 
derful how  they  understood  each  other,  and  how  much  nearei 
they  were  then  than  they  had  been  that  morning. 

Of  course  the  picnic  broke  up  in  most  "admired  disorder" 
and  at  once.  The  wet  mermaids  were  packed  damp  and 
dripi)ing  into  the  carriages  and  whirled  away  to  Scarswood  as 
fast  as  the  horses  could  trot  the  distance.  Lady  Dangertield  be- 
wailing her  fate,  her  narrow  escape  for  her  life,  and  anon  won- 
dering who  her  preserver  could  be. 

"  He  had  the  air  of  a  military  man,"  she  said  ;  *'^  iwci'^.  was 
no  mistaking  it ;  and  he  was  bronzed  anc  bearded,  a'.ni  ■  ome- 
whal  foreign-looking.  A  gentleman,  beyond  a  sluuiow  of  a 
doubt,  with  a  bow  of  a  Lord  Chesterfield  or  a  court  chamber- 
lain, and  the  whitest  teeth  1  ever  saw." 

It  was  evident  Major  l-'rankland  had  a  rival. 

"  I  wish  I  had  asked  his  name,  and  invited  him  to  call,"  my 
lady  went  on.  "Common  courtesy  required  it,  but  really  I 
was  so  confused  and  frightened,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  that  I 
thought  of  nothing.  Abominable  in  Jasper  Frankland  to  let 
the  boat  upset.  I'll  never  forgive  him.  U'hat  could  that  stran- 
ger have  tho;,;^ht  of  me — such  a  horrible  fright  as  I  must  look." 

"My  dcai  Cine  ra,  does  it  matter  7f'//<7/  this  stranger  thinks  ? 
We  are  all  grate. W  to  hi.n  for  coming  to  your  rescue  so  oppor- 
tunely, but  as  to  his  good  opinion,  I  don't  perceive  that  that 
is  a  matte»"  orr'r.isc que  nee  one  way  or  die  oUier." 

"  One  doe!^.n  '  v.'arii-  to  koi-;  like  a  scarecrov.',"  returned  her 
lad}ship,  int'.'tV'-'-i'tiy.  "even  before  strangers;  and  he  was  j-^? 
distinguishec;  'Cv.>-<ii;j,  and  had  the  linest  eyes,  Queenic.  I'er- 
ha|)s  he  may  be  oiiP  of  the  officers  from  the  Castleford  bar- 
racks." 

"I  thought  we  had  !iad  ail  the  officers  from  the  Castleford, 
and  if  any  of  them  are  eminently  distingui.shed-looking,  i  have 
hillierto  failed  to  perceive  it." 


r 


jM 


"  THERE  IS  MANY  A  SLIP,*'  ETC. 


27$ 


sir  ;  your 

*  thanks  or 
?  a  seagull. 
Sir  Arthur 

their  fine 
liserablc  a 
every  jik« 
ill  of  sup- 
is  a  grave 

was  won- 
uch  nearei 

I  disorder" 
damp  and 
arswood  as 
Terlield  bc- 
anon  won- 

'  tb.eie  was 
und  -oine- 
adow  of  a 
t  chamber- 


3  call,"  my 
ut  really  I 
f  it,  that  I 
and  to  let 
that  stran- 
iiust  look," 
;er  thinks  ? 
;  so  oppor- 
i  that  that 

turned  licr 

Ik  was  so 

:nie.     Pcr- 

leford  bar- 

Castleford, 
ng,  1  have 


If 


m 


■We  might  have  had  him  over  for  our  theatricals  to-morrow 
night,  if  I  had  only  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  ask  his 
name.  But  how  can  one  have  presence  of  mind  when  one  is 
drowning?  And  to  lose  my  hat  and  my — my  chignon,  and 
everything  !  Queenie,  how  is  it  that  you  have  escaped  so  com- 
pletely ?     Where  did  Sir  Arthur  take  you  ?  " 

"  To  Bracken  Hollow.  We  were  caught  in  the  first  of  the 
storm,  and  had  to  run  for  it.  Such  a  race  !  Even  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna,  the  most  dignified  of  mankind,  does  noi  look  digni- 
fied, scampering  away  from  a  rain-storm."  • 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  maliciously.  "  It  docs  people  good  to 
come  down  off  their  stilts  once  in  a  while,  and  put  their  high 
and — mightiness  in  their  pocket.  Really,  it  has  been  a  day  of 
extraordinary  adventures  altogether." 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Dangerfield  crossly  ;  "and  adventures  are 
much  nicer  to  read  of  than  to  take  ])art  in.  I  don't  want  ad- 
ventures out  of  Mudie's  select  novels." 

"  A  day  of  adventures,"  went  on  Lady  Cecil,  laughing.  "  You 
get  ujiset  in  the  midst  of  the  raging  ocean,  lightning  flashing, 
thunder  crashing,  rain  falling — and  what  rhymes  to  falling,  Gin- 
evra,  besides  bawling i*-  "And  at  the  last  moment,  up  rushes  the 
gallant  knight  to  the  rescue,  handsome,  of  course,  gentlemanly 
also,  military  likewise,  and  with  the  bow  of — a  court  chamber- 
hiin,  I  think  you  said?  And  for  me,  my  knight  takes  me  into 
the  Maunted  Castle,  and  we  hear  and  see  the  ghost  of  Bracken 
Hollow." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Arthur  is  your  knight  then,  is  he  ?  "  interrupted  her 
ladyship  sarcastically.  "  1  thought  it  would  come  to  that  in  the 
end.  VVe  don't  refuse  thirty  thousand  a  year,  do  we,  Queenie, 
darling,  in  spite  of  all  our  fine  poetical,  cynical  talk  of  buying 
and  selling.     And  what  Bracken  Hollow  ?     And  what  ghost  ?  " 

"  IV/ia/  Bracken  Hollow  !  There's  only  one,  and  your  hus- 
band says  it's  haunted.  I  suppose  he  ought  to  know  ;  he  seems 
an  authority  on  the  subject  of  goblins  and  ghosts.  Of  my  own 
knowledge,  1  can  say  it  is  as  dismal  and  dull  a  looking  place  as 
ever  1  laid  eyes  on — in  the  words  of  the  poet,  '  A  lonesome 
lodge  that  stands  so  low  in  lonely  glen.'  And  a  grim  and  som- 
ber old  woman— a  sort  of  Sussex  '  Noma  of  the  Intful  Head ' — 
presides  over  it.  And  at  an  upper  window  we  saw  a  most 
ghostly  face,  and  from  an  upper  chamber  we  heard  a  n^ost  ghostly 
cry.  '  Noma  of  the  Fitful  Head '  accounted  for  it  in  some  way 
about  a  raven  and  a  country  girl ;  but  i  don't  think  she  expected 
us  to  believe  it.    And  then  1  am  sure— certain—I  saw — ' 


1 

I 


276 


"  THERE  IS  AfAiVY  />   SLIP,'"   ETC. 


i: 


But  Lady  Cecil  pausccl.  \Vliy  siiould  she  create  an  unpleas- 
antness between  the  governess  and  Lady  Dangerfield  by  teKhig 
of  seeing  her  there?  That  there  was  no  mistake  she  was  con- 
vinced. Miss  Herncastle's  was  not  a  flice  to  be  mistaken  any- 
where— not  at  all  the  sort  of  flice  \ve  mean  wiien  we  say  "  it 
•will  pass  in  a  crowd."  Most  i)e()pk'  in  any  crowd  would  have 
turned  to  look  twice  at  the  very  striking  face  of  my  lady's 
nursery  governess. 

Lady  Cecil  went  up  to  lier  room  at  once,  and  rang  for  her 
maid.  In  her  dani|>  dress  she  stood  before  the  open  window 
while  she  waited,  and  looking  down  she  saw,  immediately  be- 
neath her,  in  the  rose  gard'Mi,  Aliss  Ilerncastle  !  Miss  Hern- 
castle,  calm,  composed,  pale,  grave,  lacfy-like,  and  looking,  with 
her  neatly  ai  ranged  dress  ;ind  serene  manner,  as  thougl  he  had 
been  there  for  hours,  the  last  person  possible  to  be  guilty  of  any 
escapade  whatever.  She  looked  up,  smiled,  bowed,  turiied 
siowl',  and.disai)peared  down  a  lime  walk. 

Lady  Cecil  stood  tianslixed.  What  did  it  mean?  Miss 
Herncastle  looked  a  very  clever  person,  but  she  was  not  clever 
enough,  surely,  to  be  in  twoplares  at  once.  That  was  Miss 
Herncastle  siie  had  seen  at  l^racken  Hollow  less  than  an  hour 
ago,  and  now  Miss  Herncastle  was  here,  .^he  could  not  have 
walked  the  distance  in  the  time — she  could  not  have  ridden. 
Am.'i  if  it  wasn't  Miss  Herncastle,  who  then  was  it  she  hat! 
see!  "• 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  Ladv  Cc(.i!  cried,  tapping  her  slippered 
foot  impatiently.  "I  knovv  better.  It  was  Miss  Herncastle. 
Desiroe,"  to  her  maid  ''•  i.  sc;^  M^-  s  Herncastle  down  there. 
How  long  is  it  since  she  cane  in  ?  " 

"Came  in,"  Desin'n*  lepeatod  i-.;)ening  licr  brown  French 
eyes.  "  But,  mademoiselle,  W.  :  s  Herncastle  wasn't  out  at  all. 
She  has  been  in  the  sch  )ol-rooi    with  her  young  ladies." 

'*  Are  yc  u  sure,  D(  ,irce  ?  " 

"Yes,  madeir.ois(>lle,"  Desiree  was  iu^e.  That  js— she  had 
been  in  the  servan'  '  liall  herself,  and  not  in  the  grounds,  but  of 
course  Miss  Herncastle — 

"  That  will  do,  Desiroe.  You  pull  tny  hair  when  yon  brush 
and  talk  together.      Make  has'e  !  " 

Desiroe  made  haste,  and  in  fresh  slippers  and  rosettes,  fresh 
organdie  and  ribbons,  Lady  Cecil  tripped  away  to  ihe  school- 
room. P.-a*-!  and  Pansy  wer>'  there,  making  houses  of  cards. 
Down  went  the  cards,  and  he  twins  su^.Tounckd  AmA  CeciJ 
immediately. 


i 


ill  uin)!tjas- 
1  by  IcP.ing 
o  was  con- 
laUcn  anv- 
wc  say  "it 
voukl  have 
my  lady's 

mcr  for  her 
en  window 
xliatcly  be- 
Uiss  Hern- 
oking,  with 
.lul.  he  had 
uiltyof  any 
ed,  turned 

an?  Miss 
,  not  clever 
t  was  Miss 
an  an  hour 
d  not  have 
avc  ridden, 
it  she   had 

r  shppered 

lerncastle. 

lown  there. 

wn  French 
t  out  at  all. 

s— she  had 
ands,  but  of 

you  brush 

ettes,  fresh 
die  school- 

;s  of  cards. 

Aunt  CeciJ 


\ 


"  THERE  IS  MAMY  A   SLIP,''  ETC. 


277 


'  Did  rJie  see  the  lightning 
(thunder — wasn't  she  fri^litened  ? 


oh,  wasn't  it  aw  fid  ?  And  the 
They  were.  They  went  up 
to  the  nursery  and  crei)t  into  bed,  and  pulled  the  clothes  over 
their  faces — and  never  spoke  till  it  was  all  over." 

"  A  very  praiseworthy  precaution,  my  pets.  And  where,  all 
this  time,  was  Miss  ITerncaslle  ?  " 

"Oh,  Miss  Ilerncastle — poor  Miss  Herncastle — had  sitch  a 
headache,  and  had  to  go  to  bed,  and  they  were  so  glad.  Not 
for  the  headache,  of  course— they  were  sorry  for  i)oor  Miss 
Herncastle — but  glad  that  they  had  had  a  holiday.  And  that 
other  dress  for  Seraphina" — Seraphina  was  the  biggest  of  the 
dolls — "  when  would  Aunt  Cecil  make  that  ?" 

"To-morrow,  if  i)ossible.  And  so  Miss  Herncastle  had  a 
bad  headache  and  had  to  go  to  bed.  Hum-m-m.  When  did 
she  take  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  right  after  you  all  went  away.  And  she  went  up  to  her 
room  with  some  vinegar,  and  pulled  down  the  blinds,  and  locked 
the  door,  and  told  Mrs.  I'utl-jr  she  would  try  to  sleep  it  otf. 
She  got  up  just  before  you  came  home — I  saw  her  come  out  of 
her  room  and  go  dow^  to  the  garden." 

The  door  opened  and  Miss  Herncastle  came  in,  her  roses 
and  myrtle  in  her  hand.  She  bowed  to  Lady  Cecil  with  a  slight 
smile*crossed  the  room  with  easy  grace,  and  j)laced  her  bouquet 
in  a  Parian  vase. 

"  I  regret  to  hear  you  have  been  suffering  from  a  severe  head- 
ache all  day.  Miss  Herncastle,"  Lady  Cecil  said,  and  the  amber- 
clear  -brown  eyes  fixed  themselves  full  u[)on  the  face  of  the 
governess.  "  Pansy  tells  me  you  have  been  lying  down  all  day. 
But  for  that  I  should  positively  think  it  was  your  face  I  saw  at 
a  window  of  the  house  in  Bracken  Hollow." 

The  face  of  the  governess  turned  from  the  flowers  over 
which  she  was  bending — the  deep  gray  eyes  met  the  searching 
brown  ones  steadily. 

'■Thought  you  saw  me,  Lady  Cecil!  How  very  strange. 
And  Bracken  Hollow—  where  is  Bracken  Hollow  ?" 

"  Bracken  Hollow  is  within  easy  walking  distance  of  Scars- 
wood,  Miss  Herncastle:  and  you  are  right,  it  is  very  strange. 
1  was  positive  it  was  jou  I  saw." 

"  You  were  mistaken,  of  course,"  the  governess  said,  calmly  ; 
"  it  seems  my  fiite  to  be  mistaken.  I  had  a  headache,  as 
Pansy  says,  and  was  obliged  to  go  to  my  room.  I  am  unfortu- 
nately subj'Mt  to  bad  nervous  headaches." 

Her  face  was  perfectly  calm — not  a  tremor,  not  a  flinch  of 


•J    1 


P   :         '' 


278 


"  THERE   AV  MANY  A   SLIP;' 


ETC. 


'^i 


eye  or  imisnlo.  And  again  Lady  Cecil  was  stag;j;cred.  Surely 
this  was  trnlh  or  .  iOst  pi-rfcct  acting.  If  Miss  Hcrncastlc  had 
spent  the  day  in  her  own  room  she  could  not  have  spent  it  at 
]!racken  Hollow.  And  if  it  were  not  Miss  Herncastle  she  had 
seen,  who  on  earth  then  was  it  ? 

Tljoroughly  mystified,  the  earl's  daughter  descended  the  st;iirs. 
In  the  vestibule  sat  the  liall  |)orter,  the  Castlcjonl  Chronicle  in 
his  hand,  his  gaze  meditatively  fixed  on  the  rainbow  spannirjij 
the  sky. 

)hnsO(i,  liavc  you  bt>cn  here  all  day — all  day,  mind  ?  " 

Johnson  turned  from  the  rainbow  and  made  a  bov. 

"  Yes,  my  lady — which  I  meanter  say  my  lady  hexcepting  of 
corse  while  I  was  at  dinner — all  the  rest  of  the  day,  my  lady." 

"And  did  any  one  leave  the  house  during  our  absence  ? — 
any  one — the  chiklren — the  servants?" 

"No,  my  hid)/'  Mr,  Johnson  responded,  ratlK,'r  surprised, 
'not  that  /  see,  my  lad/,  And  it  would  be  himpossible  for 
lianny  one  to  come,  wUho-:'  my  seeir.g,  my  lady.  Tlie  young 
ladies,  they  wasn't  on  the  grounds  all  day,  my  lady,  likewise 
none  of  the  servants.  Mrs.  liutler  she  were  a-making  hup 
long  haccounts  in  her  hown  room,  and  Miss  'Erncastle  she  were 
a  layin'  down  with  the  'eadache,  my  lady.  And  there  wern't  no 
callers,  my  lady."  * 

Lady  Cecil  turned  away  with  a  da/ed  look.  She  had  no 
wish  to  play  the  spy  upon  Miss  Herncastle.  If  she  hadha^w 
to  Bracken  Hollow,  and  had  owned  to  it.  Lady  Cecil  might 
have  wondered  a.  little,  but  she  would  have  said  nothing  about 
it.  She  said  nothing  about  it  as  it  was,  b'lt  she  pu/zled  over 
it  all  the  evenmg.  The  picnic  i)arty,  rejuvenated,  dined  at 
Scarswood.  Sir  Peter  left  the  Saturnia  Paronia,  and  dined 
with  his  guests — rpy  laily's  rather  ;  and  my  lady  herself,  in  fresh 
raven  ringlets,  fresh  bloom,  anrl  fresh  robe  of  gold-colored 
tissue  and  white  roses,  loo.ccd  as  pretty  and  as  animated  as 
though  ten  pounds'  sterling  wordi  of  tresses  had  not  drifted  oiu 
t  J  .sea,  and  a  lovely  new  toiiet  had  been  utterly  ruined. 

"  I  7cnsh  I  had  thought  of  asking  him  his  name,"  Lady  Dan- 
gerfield  remarked,  over  nnd  over  again,  returning  to  the  Un- 
known. "A  gentleman,  .(  am  [Xjsitive — there  is  no  mistaking 
the  air  of  society  ;  i^nd  an  ollker  ;  1  should  know  a  trooper  in 
the  pul[)it  or  in  his  coftii  .  diere  is  no  mistaking  their  swing. 
And  he  had  the  most  expressive  eyes  1  think  1  ever  saw." 

"  Your  close  observation  does  him  much  honor,"  said  Majoi 
Frankland  with  suppres.sed  jealousy.     "He  is,  in  all  probabil- 


i 


1^ 


1 


•«  THERE  IS  MANY  A   SUP,"   ETC. 


2/9 


Surely 
Stic  had 
jnt  it  at 
she  had 

ic  stjiirs. 
on  id  I'  in 
[)aiining 

i  ?  " 

pting  of 
i  lady." 
ince  ? — 

iipriscd, 
,siL>le  for 
e  young 
likewise 
ing  Imp 
she  were 
;ern't  no 

had  no 

'icul  been 

•il  might 

ig  about 

'led  over 

dined  at 

1(1  dined 

in  fiesli 

colored 

mated  as 

ifted  one 

I. 

idy  Dan- 
the  Vn- 
nistaking 
rooper  in 
ir  swing, 
iw." 

.id  Majoi 
probabil- 


ity, some  wandering  tourist,  or  artist  unknown  to  fame  and 
I'rafixlgar  Square.  It  would  be  cruel,  I  suppose,  to  hint  at  his 
being  a  conunercial  traveller,  down  from  the  melroi)olis  with 
his  samples," 

"(lad  !  he  looked  like  some  one  I've  met  before,"  muttered 
llie  earl,  glancing  uneasily  at  his  daughter,  "//t'  was  in  Lou- 
don the  night  of  the  oi)era,  and  it  is  just  possible  he  may  have 
followed  us  down  here.  Only  that  it  wt)uld  not  be  like  hiui  — 
jnoud  as  Lucifer  he  used  to  be;  and  then  1  shouUl  think,  loo, 
he  had  got  over  the  old  madness.  Did  you  see  this  unknown 
knight-errant,  Queenie?" 

'*  1  ?  No,  papa  ;  it  was  all  over  before  we  came  up.  The 
curtain  had  fallen  on  the  grand  sensational  tableau,  the  hero 
of  the  i)iece  had  lied ;  Sir  Arthur  and  1  were  only  in  lime  lor 
the  farce." 

The  earl  stroked  his  iron  gray  mustache,  reassured. 

"If  it  be  O'Donnell,  and 'i)on  my  life  I  think  it  is,  I  only 
hope  Sir  Arthur  may  speak  before  /w  appears  again  on.  the 
scene.  Not  that  she  cares  for  him,  of  course,  or  that  his  ap- 
l)earance  will  make  any  difference  in  the  result.  It  was  only 
a  girl's,  only  a  child's  fancy — and  it  is  six  years  ago.  \\'hat 
woman  ever  rcmeuibereil  an  absent  lover  six  years? — a  hus- 
band for  that  matter  ?  'i'iiey  say  Penelope  did  ;  but  we  have 
only  their  word  for  it.  I  dare  say,  while  Ulysses  was  flirting 
on  that  island  with  Queen  Calypso  and  Miss  Eucharis,  she  was 
Uirting  at  houK.-,  and  looking  out  for  his  successor.  The  only 
uni)leasant  thing  about  it  will  be,  if  they  discover  the  little 
counterplot  /  indulged  in  at  that  time.  It's  odd  Sir  Arthur 
don't  propose.  He  is  greatly  taken  with  her,  that  is  evident, 
and  though  she  doesn't  encourage  him,  she  is  friendly  enough." 

Sir  Arthur  was  taken  with  her.  His  eyes  followed  that 
fairy,  graceful  figure  everywhere  ;  he  stood  by  the  piano  while 
she  sang,  and  she  sang  very  sweetly,  his  eyes  on  the  perfect 
face,  his  ear  drinking  in  these  silver  sounds.  He  was  at  his 
case  with  her :  he  talked  to  her  as  he  had  never  talked  to  any 
woman  in  his  life  ;  she  was  fair  and  good,  lovely  and  gentle. 
Why  should  he  not  make  her  his  wife?  If  that  (\\(iuisite 
llower-face  of  hers  hatl  wrought  dire  havoc  ere  now  with  the 
too-susceptible  hearts,  was  she  to  be  blamed  ?  She  might  not 
be  quite  his  ideal,  perhaps — but  which  of  us  ever  meets  or 
nK;rries  our  ideal? — and  he  liked  her  very  well — very  well,  and 
admired  her  greatly.  Why  net  speak,  then,  and  ask  her  to  be 
his  wife? 


28o 


"  THERE  IS  MANY  A   SUP,"   ETC. 


f 


{ 


lie  resolved  this  question  in  bed  tliat  ni^ht  until  lie  fi-ll 
asleep.  Of  love,  such  as  he  h:ul  heard  of  and  read  of — that 
intermittent  fever  of  colil  fits  and  hot  lUs,  of  fear,  of  hope,  of 
jealousy,  of  delight — he  km-w  nothing;.  That  n);ul  fever  into 
which  common-sense  never  enters  isn't  a  dignified  pa^^ion  ;  a 
man  on  his  knees  to  a  woman,  calling  upon  all  the  gods  to  witness 
liow  he  worshiped  her,  is  not  an  elevating  or  majestic  sight. 
He  was  not  a  U)ver  of  the  usual  hot  hi'aded,  hare-brained  sort, 
all  wearing  the  same  brigiu  armor,  all  sin;;in!i  the  same  swei-t 
song.  l>ut  he  esteemed,  and  admired,  and  liked  I,ady  Cecil. 
She  was  his  etjual  in  every  way,  save  fortune,  and  that  he 
neither  thought  of  nor  cared  for,  and  the  very  next  day  that 
ever  shone  lie  would  ask  her  to  i)e  his  wife. 

For  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  to  resolve  was  to  do.  Me  was 
none  of  your  vacillating  lovers,  who  don't  know  their  owa 
minds,  and  who  are  afraid  to  s[)eak  when  they  do.  Without 
being  in  the  least  a  coxcomb,  he  felt  pretty  sure  of  his  answer. 
Her  father  wished  it,  she  did  nt)t  seem  at  least  to  dislike  him, 
and  as  husband  and  wife  they  would  learn  to  l*"  vi;  each  other, 
no  doubt,  very  dearly.  His  eyes  followed  hci  that  day  as  they 
had  never  followed  her  before  -with  a  new  interest,  a  new  ten- 
derness. And  Lady  Dangerfield's  sharp  black  eyes  saw  it  a.s 
they  saw  everything. 

"Thine  hour  has  come,  oh,  Queenie,"  she  laughed  mali- 
ciously. "The  grand  mogul  has  made  up  his  mind  to  lling  his 
handkerchief  at  his  slave's  feet.  Look  your  loveliest  to-night, 
La  Reine  Blanche^  for  the  great  Cornish  baronet  is  going  to 
lay  his  title  and  fortune  at  your  feet." 

The  color  llasheil  hotly  for  a  moment  over  the  excjuisite, 
drooping  face — a  Hush  of  pain,  of  almost  dread.  Her  woman's 
instinct  told  her  also,  as  well  as  dinevra,  that  Cinevra  was 
right.  He  was  going  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  she — what 
should  she  say?  \Vhat  could  she  say  but  yes?  It  was  her 
destiny  as  fixed  as  the  stars.  A  sort  of  panic  seized  her.  Sb.e 
did  not  love  him,  not  one  whit,  and  Lady  Cecil  Clive  at  two- 
and-twenty — old  enough  to  know  better,  certainly,  and  admir- 
ably trained  by  a  thorough  woman  of  the  world  -a  woman  of 
the  world  herself — out  three  seasons—  believed  in  love  ! 

I  am  pained  to  tell,  but  the  truth  stands— she  believed  in 
love.  She  read  De  Masset,  and  Meredith,  and  Tennyson — she 
even  read  livron  sometimes.  She  likeil  him— as  she  might  a 
grave,  wise,  very  much  elder  brother  but  love  him — no — no- 
no  ! 


Il:i 


«•  THERE  IS  MANY  A  SLIP;'   ETC, 


sif 


—no — no — 


And  Lady  Cecil  know  what  love  meant,  Once,  oh,  how 
long  ago  it  seemed  !  for  seven  goldi;n  weeks  the  sun  had  shone, 
and  the  roses  llamed  in  the  hglit.  Kailh  had  been  lulen,  and 
the  Someone  that  wt;  all  see  a  day  or  two  in  our  liletime  had  ap- 
peared before  her,  and  then-  the  seven  weeks  ended,  and  life's 
dead  levfl  llowed  back.  That  tlream  of  sweet  sixteen  was 
ended,  and  well  nigh  forgotten,  it  might  lie  ;  but  she  didn't 
care  for  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  and  he  was  going  to  ask  her,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  say  but  "  Ves." 

She  avoided  him  all  that  day,  as  she  had  never  avoided  him 
before  in  all  her  life.  If  her  chains  were  to  be  clasped,  at 
least  she  would  avert  the  fetters  as  long  as  she  could.  She 
shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  took  a  book,  and  forced  herself  to 
read.  She  would  not  think,  she  wouKl  not  come  down.  It 
had  to  be,  but  at  least  she  wcnild  have  a  respite  in  si)ite  of 
them  all. 

The  lovely,  rosy  July  day  wore  on,  and  dinner  time  came. 
She  had  to  go  down  then.     As  Owen  Meredith  says  : 

"We  may  live  without  books — whnt  i«  knowledge  but  grieving? 
\Vc  may  live  wit liQut  hope — what  is  hope  but  cIcccivitiR  ? 
Wc  iii.iy  live  without  loVc — wli:il  is  |)a^^il)n   but  piaiiigt 
Hut  where  is  the  man  that  can  live  without  iliiiing  V" 

Her  respite  was  over.  She  must  face  her  doom.  She  went 
down  in  white  silk  and  pearls.  There  was  to  be  an  evening 
party — theatricals,  charades,  dancing — a  large  company  were 
coming.  She  was  as  white  as  her  dress,  but  perfectly  calm. 
They  were  ever  a  brave  race,  the  Clives,  going  to  the  scaffold 
or  to  the  altar  without  wincing  once. 

Sir  Arthur  took  her  in  to  dinner-  -gentlemen  never  know  when 
they  are  not  wantetl.  He  was  very  silent  duiing  that  meal, 
but  then  silence  was  \\\%  forte.  Lady  Cecil,  usually  the  bright- 
est ot  the  bright,  was  under  a  cloud  loo.  She  cast  furtive, 
sidelong  glances  at  her  companion.  Oh,  her  doom  was  sealed 
— that  compressed  mouth,  that  stern  face,  those  grave,  inexor- 
able eyes  told  the  story.  Do  her  best,  she  could  not  shirk 
fatality  long. 

She  made  her  escape  after  dinner,  unnoticed,  as  she  fondly 
hoped,  amid  the  giy  throng.  A  bright  little  boudoir,  all  rosi, 
silk  and  ormolu,  and  cabinet  pictures,  opened  otY  one  of  the 
drawing  roouis,  double  doors  and  a  velvet  curtain  shutting  it 
in.  Tliilher  this  stricken  deer  lied.  The  double  doors  slid 
back,  the  rose  velvet  curtain  fell,  and  she  was  alone,  amid  the 
pictures  and  the  brie  ibrac,  with  the  crystal  moonrays. 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14SS0 

(716)  872-4503 


L 


r" 


282 


REDMOND  CDONNELL. 


She  sank  down  in  a  dormeuse  in  the  bay  window,  drow  a 
great  breath  of  relief,  and  looked  out.  How  peaceful  it  was, 
how  sweet,  how  hushed,  how  lonely.  Oh,  why  couldn't  life  be 
cast  in  some  blissful  Arcadian  valley,  where  existence  might  be 
one  long  succession  of  ruby  sunsets  and  silver  moonrises,  where 
nightingales  sing  the  world  to  sleep,  where  young  ladies  need 
never  get  married  at  all  if  they  like,  and  thirty  thousand  a  yeai 
is  not  a  necessity  of  life  ?  She  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked 
up  almost  passionately  at  that  bright  opal-tinted  star-set  sky. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  said,  *'  I  wish,  I  wish,  I  wish,  1  need  not  marry 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna." 

"  Lady  Cecil,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  this  intrusion,  but  they 
have  sent  me  here  to  find  you." 

Her  clasped  hands  fell — her  hour  had  come.  Sir  Arthur 
stood  tall  and  serious  before  her.  She  looked  up,  all  her  ter- 
ror, all  her  helj^less  appeal  for  an  instant  in  her  large,  soulful 
eyes.  But  he  did  not  read  it  aright — what  man  ever  does  ? 
And  he  came  forward  hastily,  eagerly.  How  beautiful  she 
looked,  how  noble,  how  sweet, — a  wife  for  any  man  to  be 
proud  of.  He  stooped  over  her  and  took  her  hand.  The 
words  were  on  his  lips — in  one  minute  all  would  be  over  ! 

"  Lady  Cecil,"  he  began.     "  I  have  sought  you  here  to — " 

He  never  finished  the  sentence. 

The  door  slid  back,  the  curtain  was  lifted,  and  Miss  Hern- 
castle  came  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

REDMOND   O'DONNELL. 

ITH  the  golden  blaze  of  the  illuminated  drawing-room 
behind  her,  with  rose-velvet  curtains  half  draping  her, 
the  moonlight  full  upon  her  pale  face  and  jet  black 
hair — so  for  one  second  she  stood  before  them.  So 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  saw  her  first,  so  in  her  sleeping  and  waking 
dreams  all  her  life  long,  Cecil  Clive  remembered  her,  standing 
like  some  rose-draped  statue  in  the  arch. 

"  Lady  Cecil,"  began   the    soft,  slow  legato  voice,  "  Lady 
Dangerfield  has  sent  rae  in  search — "    She  broke  off  suddenly ; 


1 


drow  a 
it  was, 
t  life  be 
light  be 
;,  where 
es  need 
a  yeai 
looked 
sky. 
>t  marry 

mt  they 

Arthur 

her  ter- 

soulful 

■  does  ? 

;ifiil  she 

to  be 

The 

er! 

)  to—" 

IS  Herii' 


ig-room 
ing  her, 
t  black 
111.  So 
waking 
landing 

"  Lady 
Idenly ; 


REDMOND   O'DONNELL. 


283 


she  had  advanced  a  step,  and  for  the  first  time  perceived  that 
Lady  Cecil  was  not  alone.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  was  not  aware — " 

"  Wait — wait.  Miss  Herncastle  !  "  Lady  Cecil  exclaimed, 
rising  up  with  a  great  breath  of  intense  relief.  "  Lady  Danger- 
field  sent  you  in  search  of  me,  I  suppose?  Has  anybody 
come  ?     Are  they  preparing  for  the  Charades  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Lady  Cecil,  and  they  are  waiting  for  you.  There's 
the  music." 

"  You  play.  Sir  Arthur,  do  you  not  ?  "  Lady  Cecil  turned  to 
him,  and  then  for  the  first  time  perceived  him  gazing  intently 
at  Miss  Herncastle.  He  was  wondering  who  she  was — this 
tall,  majestic  woman,  so  unlike  any  woman  he  had  as  yet  met 
in  this  house.  "  Ah !  I  forgot,  you  don't  know  Miss  Hern- 
castle. Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  Miss  Herncastle.  How  odd  to 
live  in  the  same  house  a  week  and  a  half,  and  never  once  meet. 
Hark  !  is  not  that  Ginevra's  voice  calling?" 

'*  Queenie  !  Queenie  ! "  called  the  shrill,  impatient  voice  of 
her  ladyship ;  "  are  you  asleep  or  dead,  or  in  the  house,  or 
what  ?     Where  are  you  ?  " 

She  too  lifted  the  curtains  and  stared  at  the  group  in  indig- 
nant surprise. 

*'  What  on  earth  are  you  all  doing  here  in  the  moonlight  ?  Sir 
Arthur,  I  think  I  sent  you  after  Lady  Cecil  Clive.  Miss  Hern- 
castle," sharply,  "  I  think  I  sent  you — .  Is  there  some  en- 
chantment in  this  sylvan  spot  that  those  who  enter  it  can  never 
come  forth  ?  " 

She  looked  pointedly  at  the  baronet.  Had  he  had  time  to 
propose  ?  He  was  not  a  man  of  fluent  speech  or  florid  com- 
pliment, like  her  gallant  major — he  only  smiled  in  his  grave 
way,  and  came  forth. 

Lady  Cecil  had  sped  away  like  the  wind  already,  and  Miss 
Herncastle,  with  the  stately  air  and  grace  of  a  young  queen, 
was  more  slowly  following. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  Sir  Arthur  asked  under  his  breath. 

"  Who  ?      Do  you  mean  Miss  Herncastle — my  governess  ?  " 

"  Your  governess  ?     She  looks  like  an  empress." 

"  Absurdly  tall,  isn't  she  ? — half  a  giantess.  Do  you  like  tall 
women?  No;  don't  trouble  yourself  to  turn  a  compliment 
I  see  you  do.  Miss  Herncastle  is  to  assist  to-night  in  the  tab- 
leaux— that  is  why  you  see  her  here." 

That  old,  never-failing  resource  of  country  houses,  charades 
and  tableaux  vivants  were  to  enliven  the  guests  at  Scarswood  to- 


M 


284 


•REDMOND   O'DONNELL. 


night.  The  disused  ball-room  had  been  fitted  up  as  a  tlicater, 
with  stage  and  seats,  the  Castleford  military  band  was  already 
discoursing  martial  music,  and  the  wcll-drcsscd  audience,  pre- 
pared to  be  delighted  with  everything,  had  already  taken  thcii 
seats.  Fans  lluttered,  an  odor  as  of  Araby'a  spicy  breezes  was 
wafted  through  the  room,  a  low  murmur  of  conversation  miii- 
gled  with  the  stirring  strains  of  the  band,  the  lamps  overhead 
twinkled  by  the  dozen,  and  out  through  the  wide-open  windows 
you  caught  the  starry  night  sky,  the  silver  crescent  slowly  sail- 
ing up  over  the  tall'tree-tops. 

A  bell  tinkled  and  the  curtain  went  up.  You  saw  an  inn- 
yard,  a  pump  and  horse  trough,  artistically  true  to  nature,  on 
the  sign  "  Scarswood  Arms."  Enter  Boots,  (Major  Frankland,) 
a  brush  in  one  hand,  a  gentleman's  Wellington  in  the  other,  in 
a  state  of  soliloquy.  He  gives  you  to  understand  he  is  in  love 
with  Susan,  the  barmaid,  and  Fanny,  the  chambermaid ;  and 
in  a  quandary  which  to  make  Mrs.  Boots.  Enter  Fanny — tall, 
dark,  dashing — (Miss  Hattan,  the  rector's  daughter  ;)  and  some 
love  passages  immediately  ensued.  Boots  is  on  the  point  of 
proposing  to  the  chambermaid,  when  there  comes  a  shrill  call 
for  "  Fanny,"  and  exit  Fanny  with  a  last  coquettish  toss  of  her 
long  black  ringlets,  a  last  coquettish  Hash  of  her  bonny  black 
eyes.  Yes,  Boots  likes  Fanny  best — will  ])ropose  to  Fanny, 
when  enter  Susan,  the  barmaid.  Barmaids  have  been  bewitch- 
ing from  time  immemorial — this  barmaid  is  too  fascinating  to 
tell.  She  is  very  blonde — with  a  wig  of  golden  hair,  a  complex- 
ion of  paint  and  pearl  powder — a  very  short  skirt  of  rose  silk, 
a  bodice  of  black  velvet,  and  a  perfectly  heart-breaking  little 
cap  of  rose-colored  ribbon  and  point-lace.  Barmaid  costume 
the  v.'ide  world  over.  Enter  Susan  (Lady  Dangerfield),  trip- 
ping jauntily  forward,  bearing  a  tray  of  tumblers,  and  blithely 
singing  u  little  song. 

Boots'  allegiance  is  shaken.  "  'Tother  one  was  pretty,"  he 
says,  "but  this  one  caps  the  globe.  And  then  she  have  a 
pretty  penny  in  Castleford  bank,  too."  More  love  passages 
take  place.  Susan  is  coy, — shrieks  and  skirmishes.  Down 
falls  the  tray,  smash  goes  the  glass.  Boots  must  have  that  kiss 
— struggles  for  it  manfully — gets  that  kiss — (it  sounded  very 
real  too) — Susan  slaps  his^  face  ; — not  irretrievably  offended, 
though,  you  can  see,  and — "  Susan  !  Susan,"  bawls  a  loud  bass 
voice.  '*  Coming,  ma  !  am,  coming  ! "  Susan  answers,  shakes 
her  blonde  ringlets  at  gallant  Boots,  shows  her  whi'e  teeth,  and 
exit. 


•*^ 


REDMOND   O'DONNELL. 


28^ 


a  theater, 
as  alread)- 
encc,  iM-e- 
akcn  tlicii 
■eezes  was 
itioii  niin- 
overhead 
windows 
lowly  sail- 

w  an  inn- 
ature,  on 
rankland,) 
le  other,  in 
is  in  love 
naid ;  and 
nny— tall, 
and  some 
3  point  of 
shrill  call 
OSS  of  her 
nny  black 
to  Fanny, 
Q  bewitch- 
:inating  to 
I  complex- 
rose  silk, 
king  little 
d  costume 
eld),  trip, 
d  blithely 

retty,"  he 
le  have  a 
passages 
Down 
3  that  kiss 
ided  very 
offended, 
loud  bass 
s,  shakes 
eeth,  and 


Boots  ij  alone.  Boots  soliloquizes  once  more.  "  Plow 
happy  could  I  be  with  either,  were  'tother  dear  charmer  away," 

His  quandary  has  returned — he  cannot  make  up  his  mind. 
If  he  marries  Fanny  he  will  hanker  after  Susan,  if  he  marries 
Susan,  he  will  break  his  heart  for  Fanny.  "  Oh,  why  can't  a 
man  rnarry  both — both — both  ? "  Boots  asks  with  a  mel- 
ancholy howl.  He  plunges  his  deeply  rouged  face  into  the 
snowy  folds  of  a  scented  cambric  handkerchief,  and  sinks  down, 
a  statue  of  despair,  still  feebly  murmuring  :  "  Both — both — 
both  !"  The  curtain  falls  to  slow  and  solemn  music.  "First 
syllable!"  shouts  an  invisible  voice.  People  put  their  heads 
together,  and  wonder  if  the  first  syllable  is  not — "  Bothy 

The  bell  tinkles,  and  the  curtain  goes  up  again.  This  time 
it  is  an  Eastern  scene.  A  large  painting  of  an  oasis  in  the 
desert  is  hung  in  the  background.  A  group  of  Bedouins  hover 
aloof  in  the  distance,  A  huge  marble  basin  filled  with  gold-fish 
occupies  the  center,  and  in  sandals  and  turban,  an  Eastern 
dignitary  sits  near.  The  Eastern  dignitary  is  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genna,  his  face  darkened,  his  fair  hair  hidden  by  his  gorgeous 
turban.  An  Eastern  damsel  approaches,  a  scarlet  sash  round 
about  her  waist,  her  loose  hair  flowing,  her  beautiful  bare  arms 
upholding  a  stone  pitcher  on  her  head.  She  salaams  before  my 
lord  the  dignitary,  lets  down  her  pitcher  into  the  marble  well, 
and  humbly  offers  my  lord  to  drink.  The  band  plays  a  march. 
"Second  syllable!"  shouts  the  invisible  voice,  and  the  curtain 
goes  down. 

It  rises  again — to  stirring  strains  this  time — the  band  plays 
"  The  Gathering  of  the  Clans."  You  are  in  "  marble  halls," 
pillars,  curtains — and  a  great  deal  of  tartan  drapery.  Enter  a 
majestic  figure  in  court  attire.  (Major  Frankland  again.)  His 
military  legs  look  to  advantage  in  flesh-colored  tights,  his  mili- 
tary figure  is  striking  in  velvet  doublet,  cloak,  and  rapier,  his 
military  head  in  a  plumed  cap.  He  is  a  Scotchman,  for  he 
wears  a  tartan  sash,  and  his  plumed  cap  is  a  Scotch  bonnet. 
His  mustaches  and  whiskers  are  jetty  black — his  complexion  is 
bronzed.  He  is  in  love  again,  and  soliloquizing — this  time  in 
a  very  transport  of  passion.  He  loves  some  bright  particular  star 
far  above  his  reach,  and  apostrophizes  her  with  his  rapier  in  his 
hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  chandelier.  Come  what  may, 
sooner  or  later,  he  is  determined  to  win  her,  though  his  path 
to  her  heart  lie  through  carnage  and  blood.  The  major  pro- 
nounces it  "bel — lud."  He  gnashes  his  expensive  teeth,  and 
glares  more  ferociously  than  ever  at  the  chandelier.     In  the 


286 


REDMOND   O' DON  NELL. 


.    i 


I 


distance  he  espies  another  court  gallant  in  brav^  attire,  and 
more  tartan  sash.  The  sight  l)rings  forth  a  perfect  howl  of  jeal 
ous  fury.  He  apostrophizes  this  distant  cavaHer  as  "  Henry 
Stuart,  Lord  of  Darnley,  Duke  of  Albany,  and  King  of  Scot- 
land." The  audience  have  evidently  got  among  royal  com- 
pany. 

The  warlike  strains  of  the  band  change  to  a  soft,  sweet, 
Scotch  air.  In  the  distance  you  hear  musical  feminine  laughter 
and  talking — it  comes  nearer.  A  sweet  voice  is  singing — the 
Castleford  brass  band  play  the  accompaniment  very  low  and 
sweet.  The  dark  gentleman  in  the  rapier  and  doublet  staggers 
back  apace,  says  in  a  whisper  audible  all  over  the  room,  "  'Tis 
she ! "  The  queen  approaches  with  her  three  Maries.  The 
sweet  voice  comes  nearer  ;  you  catch  the  words  of  the  queen's 
own  song  of  the  ''Four  Maries." 

"They  reveled  through  the  summer  night, 
And  by  day  made  lance  shafts  flee, 
For  Mary  Heatoun,  Mary  Seatoun, 
Mary  Fleming,  and  me  I " 

and  with  the  last  word  Mary  Stuart  enters,  her  three  Maries 
behind  her. 

She  looks  lovely.  It  is  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  in  trailing,  jewel- 
studded  robe  of  velvet,  the  little  pointed  Mary  Stuart  cap,  with 
its  double  row  of  pearls  and  a  diamond  flashing  in  the  center, 
stomacher,  dotted  with  seed  pearls,  ruffle,  enormous  farthingale. 
She  is  smiling — she  is  exquisite — she  holds  out  her  hands  with 
'*  Ah  !  my  lord  of  Bothwell  and  Hailes,  you  here,  and  listening 
to  our  poor  song?"  The  noble  doffs  his  plumed  cap,  sinks 
gracefully  down  on  one  knee,  and  lifts  the  fair  hand  to  his  lips. 
Tableau  !  Lively  music — still  very  Scotch.  "  My  queen — La 
Reine  Blanche,"  he  murmurs.  The  audience  applaud.  It  is 
very  pretty.  Black  Bothwell  and  the  White  Queen,  and  the  three 
Maries  striking  ar  attitude  in  the  background. 

Of  course  the  .vord  is  ^^ Bothwell ;"  a  child  could  guess  it. 

Another  charade  followed,  then  came  a  number  of  tableaux. 
In  one  of  these  Miss  Herncastle  appeared — in  only  one ; 
and  then  by  her  own  request  and  at  the  solicitation  of  Lady 
Cecil.  The  tableau  was  "  Charlotte  Corday  and  the  Friend  of 
the  Peoule."     Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  in  the  role  of  Marat. 

The  curtain  went  up.  You  saw  an  elegant  ajmrtment,  a 
bath  in  the  center,  and  in  the  bath  the  bloodthirsty  monster 
who  ruled  fair  France.  A  desk  is  placed  across  the  tub  ;  he 
writes  as  he  sits  in  his  bath  ;  he  signs  death-warrants  by  the 


, 


A  ' 


attire,  and 
)wl  of  jeal 
3  *'  Henry 
ig  of  Scot- 
oyal  com- 

oft,  sweet, 
le  laughter 
iging — the 
■y  low  and 
it  staggers 


om, 


li  >'r 


-lis 

ries.     The 
he  queen's 


ee  Maries 

ing,  jewel- 
cap,  with 
he  center, 
ir  thin  gale, 
lands  with 
1  listening 
cap,  sinks 
:o  his  lips, 
ueen — Za 
ud.  It  is 
the  three 

uess  it. 

tableaux. 

Dnly  one ; 

of  Lady 

Friend  of 
irat. 

itment,  a 
monster 
;  tub  ;  he 
Its  by  the 


REDMOND   O'DONNELL. 


287 

There 


seeing  hiui. 


dozen,  and  gloats  with  hellish  exultation  over  his  wtirk 
is  an  altercation  without — some  one  insists  upon 
The  door  slowly  opens,  some  one  slowly  enters,  the  lights  go 
slowly  down,  semi-darkness  rules  the  scene,  the  band  plays  the 
awful  music  of  Don  Giovanni  before  the  statue  enters.  A  tall 
female  figure  glides  in,  in  a  trailing  black  robe  ;  she  glides  slowly 
forward — slowly,  slowly.  Her  face,  deadly  pale,  turns  to  the 
audience  a  moment.  Clutched  in  the  folds  of  that  sable,  sweep- 
ing robe,  you  see  a  long,  slender,  gleaming  dagger.  The  silence 
of  awe  and  expectation  falls  upon  the  audience.  She  glides 
nearer,  nearer  ;  she  lifts  the  dagger,  her  pale  face  awful,  venge- 
ful in  the  dim  light.  The  Friend  of  the  People  looks  up  for 
the  first  tune,  but  it  is  too  late.  The  Avenger  is  almost  upon 
him,  the  gleaming  dagger  is  uplifted  to  strike.  Sir  Peter  Dan- 
gerfield  beholds  the  terrible  face  of  Miss  Herncastle ;  he  sees 
the  brandished  knife,  and  leaps  up  with  a  shriek  of  terror  that 
rings  through  the  house.  A  thrill  of  horror  goes  through  every 
one  as  the  curtain  rapidly  falls. 

"  Good  Heaven  !  she  has  killed  him  ! "  an  excited  voice  says. 

Then  the  lights  flash  up,  the  band  crashes  out  the  *'  Guards' 
Waltz  ;  "  but  for  a  moment  neither  lights  nor  music  can  over- 
come the  spell  that  has  fallen  ujjon  them. 

"Who  was  that?"  everybody  asks — "who  played  Charlotte 
Corday?" 

And  everybody  feels  a  second  shock,  this  time  of  disappoint- 
ment, as  the  answer  is : 

"Only  Lady  Dangerfield's  nursery  governess." 

Behind  the  scenes  the  sensation  was  greater.  Pale,  affrighted, 
Sir  Peter  had  rushed  off,  and  into  the  midst  of  the  actors. 

"  How  dare  you  send  that  woman  to  me?"  he  cried,  trem- 
bling with  rage  and  excitement.  "  Why  did  you  not  tell  me 
that  she  was  selected  to  play  with  me  ?  " 

The  well-bred  crowd  stared.  Had  Sir  Peter  gone  mad? 
They  looked  at  Lady  Dangerfield,  pale  with  anger  and  mortifi- 
cation— at  Lady  Cecil,  distressed  and  striving  to  explain,  and 
at  Miss  Herncastle  herself — standing  calm,  motionless,  self- 
possessed  as  ever. 

They  quieted  him  in  some  way,  but  he  threw  off  his  Marat 
robe  and  left  the  assembly  in  disgust.  Miss  Herncastle  would 
have  followed,  but  Lady  Cecil,  her  gentle  eyes  quite  flashing, 
forbade  it. 

"Nonsense,  ATiss  Herncastle  !  Because  Sir  Peter  chooses  to 
be  a  hysterical  goose,  is  that  any  reason   you  should   suffer 


288 


REDMOND   O'DONriELL. 


for  his  folly  ?  You  acted  splendidly — splendidly,  I  say — yo!i 
are  a  born  actress.  I  really  tiioiight  for  a  nionicnt  you  had 
stabbed  him  !  You  shall  not  go  up  and  mope  in  your  room 
— you  shall  stay  and  sec  the  play  i)layed  out.  Sir  Arthur, 
amuse  Miss  Herncastle  while  I  dress  for  the  tableau  of  Rebecca 
And  Rovvena." 

Sir  Arthur  obeyed  with  a  smile,  at  the  pretty  peremptory 
command.  He  was  strangely  struck  with  this  tall,  majestic 
young  woman,  who  looked  as  an  exiled  queen  might,  who 
epoke  in  a  voice  that  was  as  the  music  of  the  s|)heres,  and  who 
was  only  a  nursery  governess.  She  had  produced  as  i)rofound 
an  impression  upon  him  as  upon  the  others,  by  her  vividly 
powerful  acting.  Charlotte  Corday  herself  could  never  have 
looked  onfe  whit  more  stern  and  terrible,  with  the  uplifted  knife 
over  the  doomed  head  of  the  tyrant,  than  had  Miss  Herncastle'. 

"  Her  Majesty.  La  Rcine  Blanche,  conuiiands  but  to  be 
obeyed,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  **  Permit  me  to  lead  you  to  a 
seat,  Miss  Herncastle,  and  allow  me  to  indorse  Lady  Cecil's 
words.     You  are  a  born  actress." 

She  smiled  a  little,  and  accepted  his  proffered  arm.  Some 
of  the  ladies  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  exchanged  glances. 
A  baronet  and  a  governess  !  He  led  her  to  a  seat  in  the  thea- 
ter, and  remained  by  her  side  until  the  performance  ended. 

They  talked  commonplaces,  of  course — discussed  the  different 
tableaux  and  the  different  actors  ;  and  when  the  last  tableau  was 
applauded  and  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  finale,  he  drew  her  hand 
within  his  arm  once  more,  and  was  her  escort  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. Dancing  followed.  As  has  been  said,  the  baronet 
did  not  dance.  He  led  Miss  Herncastle  to  a  seat  and  took 
another  beside  her.  What  was  it  that  interested  him  in  her,  he 
wondered — he  tuas  interested,  strangely.  Not  her  beauty — she 
was  in  no  way  beautiful ;  not  her  conversation,  for  she  had  said 
very  little.  But  she  was  clever — he  could  see  that;  and  what 
wonderful  eyes  she  had — bright,  deep,  solemn.  How  her  soft, 
slumbrous  accents  pleased  and  lingered  on  the  ear.  She  was 
dressed  in  white  to-night — in  dead  white,  without  jewel  or  ribbon. 
Her  abundant  black  hair  was  braided  and  twined  like  a  coronet 
around  her  head — in  its  blackness  a  cluster  of  scarlet  fuchsias 
shone.  He  had  once  seen  a  picture  of  Semiramis,  Queen  of 
Assyria,  in  a  robe  of  white,  and  with  blood-red  roses  wreathing 
her  black  hair.  And  to-night  Miss  Herncastle,  the  nursery  gov* 
erness,  looked  like  Queen  Semiramis. 


REDMOND   O'DONNELL. 


289 


I  say — yoii 
nt  voii  had 
\  your  looui 
Sir  Arthur, 
of  Rebecca 

peremptory 
all,  majestic 
might,  who 
es,  and  who 
as  profound 

■  her  vividly 
never  have 

iplifted  knife 
Herncastle'. 
s  but  to  be 
sad  you  to  a 
Lady  Cecil's 

arm.  Some 
iged  glances. 
:  in  the  thea- 
e  ended. 
1  the  different 
t  tableau  was 
revv  her  hand 

to  the  draw- 
,  the  baronet 
seat  and  took 
im  in  her,  he 

beauty — she 

■  she  had  said 
at ;  and  what 
low  her  soft, 
ar.  She  was 
wel  or  ribbon, 
ike  a  coronet 
;arlet  fuchsias 
nis.  Queen  of 
ses  wreathing 
i  nursery  gov* 


She  was  turning  over  a  book  of  engravings,  and  paused  over 
the  first,  with  a  smile  on  her  flice. 

"What  is  it?"  Sir  Arthur  asked.  "  Your  engraving  seems 
to  interest  you.     It  is  very  pretty.     What  do  you  call  it  ?  " 

"It  is  *  King  Cophctua  and  the  Beggar  Maid,'  ^x\<\'\\  docs 
amuse  me.  Look  at  the  Beggar  Maid — see  what  a  charming 
short  dress  she  has  on  !  look  at  the  flowers  in  her  flowing  hair  ! 
look  at  the  perfect  arms  and  hands  !  What  a  pity  the  beggar- 
maids  of  everyday  life  can't  look  pretty  and  picturesque  like  this  ! 
But  then  if  pictures,  and  poets,  and  books  represented  life  as 
life  really  is,  the  charm  would  be  gone.  We  can  excuse 
Cophetua  for  falling  in  love  with  that  exquisite  Greek  profile, 
that  haughty,  high-bred  face.  Notice  how  much  more  eU'gant 
she  is  than  those  scandalized  ladies-in-waiting  in  the  background. 
'  This  beggar-maid  shall  be  my  queen  ! '  the  enraptured  king  is 
saying,  and  really  for  such  a  face  one  can  almost  excuse  him." 

Sir  Arthur  smiled. 

^^  A/most e^cnse  him  I  I  confess  I  can't  perceive  the  *  almost.' 
Why  should  he  not  make  her  Queen  Cophetua,  if  he  wills  ? 
She  is  beautiful,  and  graceful,  and  young,  and  good." 

*' And  a  beggar-maid.  The  beauty  of  a  Venus  Celestes,  the 
grace  of  a  bayadere,  the  goodness  of  an  angel,  would  not  coun- 
terbalance that.  Kingly  eagles  don't  mate  with  birds  of  paradise, 
be  their  plumage  never  so  bright.  And  beggar  maids  have 
Grecian  noses,  and  exquisite  hands,  and  willowy  figures  in — 
pictures,  and  nowhere  else.  In  real  life  their  noses  are  of  the 
genus  pug,  their  fingers  stumpy  and  grimy,  their  figures  stout 
and  strong,  and  they  talk  with  a  horrid  cockney  accent  and  drop 
their  h  s.  No,  these  things  happen  in  a  laureate's  poems — in 
life,  never." 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  cynicisms.  Miss  Herncastle  ?  Who 
could  have  thought  a  young  lady  could  be  so  hard  and  practical  ?  " 
.  "  A  young  lady  !  nay,  a  governess.  All  the  difference  in  the 
world.  Sir  Arthur.  A  world  all  sunshine  and  coiiletir  de  rose  to 
— well — an  earl's  daughter,  say — looks  a  very  gloomy  and  grue- 
some place  seen  through  a  governess's  green  spectacles." 

She  laughed  a  litde  as  she  turned  the  book  over.  Sir  Arthur 
stroked  his  long,  fair  beard  and  wondered  what  manner  of  woman 
this  was. 

"  How  bitterly  she  talks,"  he  thought ;  "and  she  looks  like  a 
person  who  has  seen  trouble.  I  wonder  what  her  life  can  have 
been  ?  " 

He  was  puzzled,  interested — a  dangerous  beginning.  He 
13 


T 


290 


REDMOND   CDONNELL, 


i! 


lingered  by  her  side  nearly  the  whole  evening.  Lady  Danger- 
field  looked  on  in  surprise  and  indignation.  Such  unwarrantable 
presumption  on  Mi.ssIIerncastlc'si)art,  such  ridiculous  attention 
on  that  of  Sir  Arthur. 

"Queenie,  do  you  see?"  she  said,  half  angrily  ;  "there  is 
that  forward  creature,  the  governess,  actually  nionopoli/ing  Sir 
Arthur  the  whole  night.  What  does  it  mean  ?  And  you  look 
as  though  you  didn't  care." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  and  fluttered  her  fan.  There  was  a  deep 
permanent  flush  on  her  cheek  to-night,  a  light  in  the  brown  eyes 
that  rarely  came.     She  looked  quite  dazzling. 

"  I  dorit  care.  Lady  Dangerfield.  Miss  Herncastle may  monop- 
olize him  until  doomsday  if  she  chooses.  What  it  means  is 
this — I  asked  Sir  Arthur  in  the  green-room,  two  hours  ago,  to 
amuse  her,  and  he  is  only  obeying  orders.  Upon  my  word, 
Ginevra,  1  think  he  is  really  enjoying  himself  for  the  lirst  time 
since  his  arrival.  See  how  interested  and  well  pleased  he  looks. 
You  ought  to  feel  grateful  to  Miss  Herncastle  for  entertaining 
so  well  your  most  distinguished  guest.  I  always  thought  she 
■was  a  clever  woman — now  1  feel  sure  of  it.  VVhat  a  pity  she 
isn't  an  earl's  daughter — she  is  just  the  woman  of  all  women  he 
ought  to  marry.  Don't  interrupt,  I  beg,  Ginevra;  let  poor  Sir 
Arthur  be  happy  in  his  own  way." 

She  laughed  again  and  floated  away.  She  was  brilliant  beyond 
expression  to-night — some  hidden  excitement  surely  sent  that 
red  to  her  cheeks,  that  fire  to  her  eyes.  Lady  Dangerfield,  too, 
had  her  little  exciten.*^nt,  for  the  preserver  of  her  life  had  been 
found  and  was  actually  now  in  the  rooms. 

He  had  entered  some  hours  ago  with  the  earl,  and  taken  his 
place  among  the  audience.  He  had  applauded  the  Bothwell 
scene,  and  watched  La  Reine  Blanche  with  cool,  critical  eyes. 
She  was  very  beautiful,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  dazzle  him. 
Like  all  the  rest,  the  "  Charlotte  Corday  "  tableau  had  struck 
him  most. 

*'  The  deuce,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath,  as  he  looked  at 
her  ;  "  who  the  dickens  is  it  that  lady  reminds  me  of  ?  " 

He  could  not  place  her,  and  as  she  did  not  appear  again,  he 
speedily  forgot  her.  He  went  with  the  earl  into  the  ballroom, 
the  cynosure  of  many  pairs  of  bright  eyes.  The  tall,  soldierly 
figure,  the  dashing  trooper-swing,  the  dark  face,  with  its  bronzed 
skin,  its  auburn  beard  and  mustache,  its  keen  blue  eyes,  looking 
nearly  black  under  their  black  brows  and  lashes,  the  stately 
poise  of  the  head,  would  have  commanded  attention  anywhere. 


1 


REDMOND    0' DON  NELL, 


291 


It  was  the  genLlcman  who  had  come  to  the  rcr.cnc  of  the  boat- 
ing party,  and  whom  Lord  Ruysland  h\d  "met  by  chance  the 
usual  way,"  and  insisted  upon  accompanying  him  home. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  he  had  said  pathetically,  "yon  must  come. 
I^ady  l)angerlield  has  had  an  adventure  for  the  first  time — you 
are  the  hero  of  that  adventure.  She  overllows  witli  romantic 
giatitude.  She  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  did  not  fetch  you 
— she  is  dying  to  know  the  preserver  of  her  life.  What  are  you 
laughiiig.at  ?     Come  and  be  thanked." 

The  tall  soldier  had  come,  and  was  presented  in  due  form  to 
my  lady.  He  was  thanked.  My  lady's  expressions  of  grati- 
tude were  eloquent  and  flowing — her  rescuer  was  better  looking, 
even  than  she  had  supposed  at  first  glance — very  much  better 
looking  than  Major  Frankland.  The  gentleman  listened,  stroked 
his  mustache,  and  looked  bored.  The  earl  glanced  ai»>  md. 
His  niece's  fickle  fancy  was  caught  once  again — Frankland  nad 
found  a  rival. 

'*  And  now,  my  dear,"  he  said  blandly,  "  before  you  quite 
overpower  my  poor  friend,  I  think  I'll  take  him  to  Cecil.  They 
are  quite  old  friends,  I  assure  you,  and  she  will  be  delighted  to 
meet  him  once  more." 

They  crossed  to  where  she  stood,  the  center  of  a  gay,  brilliant 
group.  She  wore  the  Mary  Stuart  dress  and  cap  once  more, 
and  looked  lovely.  In  the  midst  of  her  laughing  repartee  her 
father's  voice  fell  on  her  ear  : 

"Queenie,  turn  round  and  greet  an  old  friend."  Another 
voice  spoke — a  deep  manly  tone  : 

"Six  years  is  a  long  time  to  hope  for  remembrance,  but  I 
trust  even  six  years  has  not  made  La  Reine  Blanche  forget  the 
humblest  of  her  subjects." 

The  laughing  words  died  on  her  lips.  A  sort  of  stillness  came 
over  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  turned  round  and  stood  face 
to  face  with  Captain  Redmond  O'DonnelL 


I. 


292 


S/X    YEAXS  BEFORE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


SIX    YEARS    DEFORE. 


ND  is  it  the  road  to  Tonvglin  tlieir  honors  it  axin' 
afther?  Arrah  !  get  out  o'  nic  road,  Murty,  an'  I'll 
spake  to  the  quality  nieself.  Torryglin  is  it,  ycr 
honor's  spakin'  av?"  said  Mr.  Titnothy  Cronin,  land- 
lord of  the  popular  shebeen,  "  The  Little  D/iudern,"  in  the  town 
of  Ballynahaggart,  County  Fermanagh,  Ireland,  pulling  off  his 
caubeen  and  making  the  quality  a  low  bow. 

The  Earl  of  Ruysland  and  his  daughter  sat  in  their  saddles 
before  the  door.  It  was  drawing  near  the  close  of  a  cloudy, 
chill,  autumn  afternoon.  The  wind  was  rising  to  a  steady  gale, 
and  overhead  spread  a  dark,  fast-drifting,  threatening  sky. 

"  Yes,  Torryglen,"  his  lordship  answered,  imi)atiently  ;  "  how 
many  miles  between  this  and  Torryglen,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"  Six,  av  yer  honor  takes  the  road — three,  maybe  not  so 
much,  av  ye  take  the  mountains." 

"The  mountains — but  I  don't  know — " 

"  Shure,  ye  can't  go  asthray — it's  as  straight  as  the  nose  on 
yer  honor's  face.  Crass  the  Clin  there  beyant — the  path's  be- 
fore ye  so  plain  a  blind  man  cudn't  miss  it.  Thin  turn  to  the 
right  and  crass  the  sthrame,  whin  ye  get  to  Torrybahm-an " 

"  But,  my  good  man,"  cried  the  earl,  still  more  impalien'ly, 
"I  don't  know  your  confounded  'sthrames'  or  *  Torrybahnis,' 
and  we'll  go  astray  to  a  dead  certainty  if  we  take  this  windii.g 
bridle-path  you  speak  of.  The  mountain  lakes  and  streams  are 
flooded  beside,  they  told  me  in  Enniskillen — the  way  you 
speak  of  may  be  shorter  but  dangerous." 

"  Sorra  danger  !  "  said  Timothy  Cronin,  disdainfully.  "  Yer 
bastes  will  take  it  in  the  clappin'  av  yer  hands.  But  if  yer 
afeered,yer  honor — an'  shure  it'ud  be  a  thousand  pities  to  have 
the  purty  young  lady  beside  ye  belated,  sure  there's  a  dacent 
boy  here  that'll  convoy  ye  a  piece  o'  the  road  an'  welcome. 
Mickey — Mickey  avic — come  here  ! " 

Mickey  came — the  "dacent  boy"  of  Mr.  Cronin's  eulogy — • 
a  stripling  of  perhaps  five-and-forty  summers.  Mickey  was 
smoking  a  little  black  pipe,  and  gave  his  forelock  a  pull  of  re- 
spect to  the  gentry. 

"This  is  Mickey,  yer  honor — Micky  McGuiggan — as  soople 
a  boy  as  any  in  the  town  Ian' ;    knows  ivery  fut  av  the  road 


SIX    YEARS  BEFORE. 


293 


s  \i  axin' 
,  an'  I'll 
it,  ycr 
in,  land- 
ic  lown 
i  off  his 

saddles 
cloudy, 

idy  gulc, 

iky. 

;  "  how 
vv?" 

not  so 


nose  on 
Uh's  1)0- 
1   to  the 

n " 

itien'ly, 
bahms,' 
kvindii.nr 

ams  are 
ay   you 

"  Yer 
t  if  yer 
to  have 
dacent 
;lconie. 

logy-^ 

^y   was 

of  re- 

soople 
e  road 


bother  thin  his  i)raycrs,  an'  goes  over  it  aflcncr.     Tt's  Toiry- 
glin  that's  wantin',  Mickey — an'  shure  this  is  the  lord  himself— 
an'  ye'll  take  thiin  acrass  the  hills  and  'I'orrybahni  afore  night 
fall,  an'  good  luck  to  ye." 

"Come  on  then,  my  man,"  the  earl  said  to  Mickey,  and 
flinging  the  landlord  of  the  ^''  Little  Dlmdccn^'  a  crown  for  his 
civility,  the  guide,  barefooted,  his  pipe  still  in  his  mouth, 
skipi)ed  ahead  with  the  lleet-fooled  rapidity  of  a  peasunt  b'>rn 
and  bred  on  the  spot,  the  two  equestrians  following  at  a  tolera- 
ble pace." 

The  scenery  was  wild  and  i)icturesque.  Here  and  there  a 
thatched  cabin,  with  its  little  potato  garden — the  only  sign  of 
human  habitation — purple  and  ruj-j'^t  moorland,  towering  cliffs, 
and  black  beetling  rocks.  Aw  ly  in  tlie  distance  the  roar  of 
mountain  torrents,  swollen  by  recent  heavy  rains,  and  over 
their  heads  that  black,  heavily  drifting  sky,  threatening  another 
downpour. 

"  J5y  Heaven!  Cecil,"  the  earl  exclaimed,  looking  upward  at 
the  frowning  canopy,  "  the  storm  will  be  upon  us  before  we 
reach  Torryglen  yet.  What  a  fool  I  was  not  to  remain  at 
Ennlskillen,  until  to-morrow." 

"  Only  three  miles,  he  said,  papa,  and  we  have  surely  ridden 
one  of  them  already.  As  for  the  storm,  a  wet  jacket  won't 
hurt  either  of  us,  and  I  suppose  they  will  give  us  a  good  fire 
and  a  hot  dinner  when  we  reach  the  house." 

"  Divil  fear  thim  but  they  will !  "  muttered  Mr.  McGuiggan, 
ahead,  "  sorra  hale  I'm  towld  thim  K>iglish  does  but  ate  and 
dhrink.  Lashins  o'  whiskey  every  hour  in  the  twinty-four  av' 
they  plase,  an'  beef  and  mutton  ivery  day  a,.'  their  lives,  Fridays, 
an'  all.  An'  it's  the  lord  himself  I'm  coiv. .  yin'  and  his  daugh- 
ter ;  troth,  but  she's  a  purty  craythur,  too. ' 

"Papa,"  Lady  Cecil  said  wistfully,  "is  it  possible  people 
really  live,  and  eat  and  sleep  in  these  wretched  hovels  ?  I 
have  seen  poverty  before,  but  never  such  poverty  as  this." 

"  They  are  little  better  than  savages,  my  dear,  and  as  might 
be  ex[)ected,  live  in  a  semi-savage  state.*  The  scenery  is  wild 
enough  and  grand  enough  at  least.  Look  at  those  black  beet- 
ling cliffs  crowned  with  arbutis  and  holly.  If  we  were  artists, 
Queenie,  we  might  paint  this,  and  inmortalize  ourselves." 

"  The  storm  is  coming,"  Lady  Cecil  cried,  as  a  great  drop 
splashed  upon  her  pturned  face,  and  the  hills  shook  with  the 
sullen  roar  of  dista.  ,  tliunder.  "  You  were  right,  we  are  in  for 
a  wetting  after  all." 


294 


SIX    YEARS  BEFORE, 


"  How  many  miles  to  Torryglea  now,  my  man  ?  "  the  earl 
called  anxiously. 

"  Betther  then  wan  an'  a  half,"  responded  their  guide ;  "  an' 
troth  ye'll  ketch  it !  D'ye  hear  that  roar  ?  That's  the  moun- 
tain lakes  spoutin,  an'  whin  th^y  do  that,  be  me  word,  there's 
danger  in  crassin  the  sthrame.  An'  ye  must  crass  it  to  get  tc 
Porryglin  this  night.  A  chile  cud  do  it  dhry  shod  in  the  hate 
o'  summer,  but  now — bedad  !  I  hope  your  bastes  is  good 
shwimmers,  or  ye'll  niver  see  the  other  side.  There's  a  current 
there  that  wud  carrj'-  an  army  o'  men  over,  an'  a  fall  to  back  it 
thirty  feet  deep," 

**  Then  what  the  devil!"  cried  the  earl  angrily,  "did  that 
rascally  landlord  mean  by  saying  there  was  no  danger,  and  rec- 
ommending this  way  ?  Why  did  he  not  permit  us  to  take  the 
high  road  as  we  intended  ?  It  might  have  been  longer  perhaps, 
but  at  least  it  would  have  been  safe." 

"Faix,  that's  true  for  yer  honor.  Shure  a  short  cut  any- 
where's  always  the  longest  way  in  the  ind.  Troth,  meselfs 
thinkin'  the  high-road  wud  have  been  the  shortest  cut  thi^ 
blissid  night.  And  there's  the  sthrame  for  ye  now,  and  be 
gomenties,  it's  roarin'  like  mad  !" 

Mr.  McGuiggan  paused--Lord  Ruysland  and  Lady  Cecil 
drew  up  their  horses  aghast.  A.  foaming  torrent  crossed  their 
path  swollen  to  the  width  of  a  river,  rushing  over  the  rocks 
with  the  fury  of  a  cataract,  and  plunging  wildly  over  a  precipice 
thirty  yards  distant. 

"There  it  is  for  ye,"  said  Mickey,  stolidly;  "an'  if  ye' re 
afeerd  to  cross,  troth  there's  nothin'  for  it  but  jist  turn  roun' 
and  ride  back  to  Ballynahaggart.  An'  meselfs  thinkin',  con- 
shideren'  the  bewtiful  young  lady  yer  lordship  has  wid  ye,  it  'ud 
be  the  wisest  thing  ye  cud  do.  Shure  ye'll  bedhrowncd  intirely, 
wid  the  rain  and  the  lightnin,  except  in  case  that  yer  horses 
can  shwira  it.     An'  faix  meself  has  doubts  av  that  same." 

The  rain  was  falling  now  in  drenching  torrents,  the  roar  of 
the  thunder  and  rushing  waters  commingled  in  a  dread  dinpason  ; 
"from  crag  to  crag  the  living  lightning  leaped;"  and  before 
them,  barring  farther  progress,  poured  madly  by  the  rushing, 
furious  river. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Cecil  ?  "  the  earl  asked,  with  the  calm 
intensity  of  despair. 

"  I  don't  know,  papa,"  Lady  Cecil  responded;  and  in  spite 
of  the  danger  and  disagreeableness  generallj-^  there  was  a  smile 
on  her  lips  as  she  watched  Mr.  Michael  AIcGuiggan  standing 


1 


SIX    YEARS  BEFORE. 


295 


the  earl 

?;  "an' 
111  oil  n- 
there's 
get  tc 
he  hate 
is  good 
current 
back  it 

did  tiiat 
uid  rec- 
ake  the 
)erhaps, 

lit  any- 
iieselfs 
:ut  thio 
and  be 

y  Cecil 
ed  their 
ic  rocks 
recipice 

if  ye're 
n  roiin' 
1',  con- 
s,  it  'nd 
ntirely, 
horses 

roar  of 

pason ; 

before 

Lishing, 

e  calm 

n  spite 
I  smile 
anding 


f 


amid  all  the  sublime,  savage  grandeur  of  the  scene  and  the 
storm,  his  hands  in  his  tattered  corduroy  pockets,  his  little 
black  pipe  in  his  mouth,  scanning  the  prospect  with  calm  phi- 
losophy. "  It  7nayhQ  dangerous  to  go  '^n,  and  yet  one  hates  to 
turn  back." 

"  I'm  d — d  if  I  turn  back  ! "  muttered  the  earl,  savagely,  be- 
tween his  teeth.  "  Do  you  comvi  with  us,  my  man,  or  does  your 
pilotage  end  here  ?  " 

"There  it's  for  ye,"  responded  Mickey,  dogmatically,  nod- 
ding toward  the  river  ;  "  take  it  or  lave  it,  but  sorra  shooaside 
will  I  commit  this  night.  Av  yer  bastes  wor  Irish  now,"  look- 
ing with  ineffable  disdain  at  the  thoroughbreds  ridden  by  the 
earl  and  his  daughter  j  "  but —  Oh,  vvirra  !  wirra  !  there  they 
go,  and,  av  Providence  hasn't  said  it,  they'll  be  dhrowned  afore 
me  eyes  !" 

"  Come  on,  Cecil !  "  the  earl  exclaimed ;  "  oui  horses  will  do 
it,  and  every  moment  we  spend  here  is  a  moment  wasteu." 

He  seized  her  bridle  rein,  and  the  animals  plunged  headlong 
into  the  flood.  Lady  Cecil  sat  her  horse  as  though  part  of  the 
animal,  and  grasped  the  reins  with  the  strength  of  desperation. 
Both  she  aiid  the  earl  strove  to  head  their  horses  against  the 
boiling  current,  but,  after  the  first  plunge,  the  terrified  horses 
stood  amid  the  seething  foam  as  if  spell-bound.  Lord  Ruys- 
land,  his  teeth  set,  struck  his  own  a  savage  blow  with  his  whip. 
He  sprang  madly  forward,  leading  the  other  in  bis  wake. 

"Courage,  Cecil— courage  !"  the  earl  shouted.  "We  will 
ford  this  hell  of  waters  yet ! " 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  at  that  instant  she  was  unseated,  and 
with  a  long,  wild  cry  was  tossed  like  a  feather  in  the  gale  down 
straight  to  that  awful  precipice  below. 

No  mortal  help,  it  seemed,  could  save  her.  Her  father 
made  frantic  efforts  to  reach  her,  but  in  vain.  Near,  nearer, 
nearer  to  that  frightful,  hissing  chasm,  to  be  dashed  to  atoms 
on  the  rocks  below.  In  the  midst  of  the  waters  the  earl  sat  his 
horse,  white,  powerless,  paralyzed. 

"  Oh,  God  ! "  he  cried,  "  can  nothing  save  her  ?  " 

Yes ;  at  the  last  moment  a  wild  shout  came  from  the  opposite 
bank,  a  figure  plunged  headlong  into  the  river,  and  headed 
with  almost  superhuman  strength  toward  her. 

"  Cling  to  the  rock  for  the  love  of  God  !'*  .'routed  a  voice 
through  the  din  of  the  storm. 

Through  the  din  of  the  storm,  through  her  reeling  senses, 
she  heard  that  cry  and  obeyed.    She  caught  at  a  rock  near,  and 


■■' 


I 


296 


SIX    YEARS  BEFORE. 


grasped  it  with  the  tenacity  of  despair  for  a  moment ;  another, 
and  she  was  torn  awa3%  held  with  iron  strength  in  the  gras[)  of 
a  strong  arm.  There  was  a  last,  desperate  struggle  with  the 
surging  flood — a  struggle  in  which  both  she  and  her  rescuer 
were  nearly  whirled  over  the  chasm.  Then,  in  the  uproar  and 
darkness,  there  came  a  lull  ;  then  the  tumult  of  many  voices 
in  wild  Irish  shouts  ;  then  she  was  lying  on  the  opposite  bank, 
drenched  from  head  to  foot,  but  saved  from  an  awful  death.    • 

"  Hurrah  !"  shouted  a  wild  voice.  "  Long  life  tO  ye,  Mister 
Redmond  !  Shurc  it's  yerself  is  the  thrue  warrant  for  a  sthrong 
arm  and  a  sthout  heart  I  Begorra !  though  ye  war  near  it ! 
Upon  me  sowl,  there  isn't  another  man  in  the  barony  but  yer- 
self cud  av'  dun  it." 

"Oh,  stow  all  that,  Lanty!"  answered  an  impatient  voice, 
as  Lady  Cecil's  preserver  gave  himself  a  shake  like  a  wnter-dog. 
"  I'll  hold  you  a  guinea  it's  the  English  lord  and  his  daughter 
on  their  way  to  Torryglen.  Were  they  mad,  I  wonder,  to  try 
and  ford  the  torrent  in  this  storm  ?  See  how  he  breasts  the 
current — he's  down — no,  he's  up  again — now  he's  gained  the 
bank.  By  the  rock  of  Cashell !  gallantly  done — a  brave  beast  ! 
Lanty,  if  you  can  do  anything  more  for  them,  do  it.     I'm  off." 

Vie  bounded  away  in  the  rainy  twilight  with  the  speed  of  a 
young  stag.  The  peasant  addressed  as  "Lanty"  looked  after 
ivim. 

"By  the  powe's,  but  it's  like  ye  and  all  yer  breed,  seed,  and 
gineration,  to  c_,o  to  the  divil  to  save  any  one  in  dislhress,  and 
ihiu  fly  as  if  he  were  afther  ye  for  fear  ye'd  get  thanked.  Oh, 
br.t  it's  meself  that  knows  ye — father  an'  son — this  many  a  day 
;vell.     God  save  your  honor  kindly." 

Lanty  pulled  off  his  hairy  cap. 

"  Troth,  it  was  a  narra  escape  yer  honor  had  this  night,  an' 
the  young  lady.  Oh,  thin,  it's  a  sore  heart  ye'd  have  in  yer 
breasht  this  minit  av  it  hadn't  been  for  the  young  masther." 

"  That  gallant  youth,"  the  earl  cried,  flinging  himself  off  his 
liorse.  "  I  never  saw  a  braver  deed,  Cecil — Cecil,  niy  darling, 
thank  Heaven  you  are  saved !  Cecil,  my  dearest,  are  you 
hurt?" 

He  lifted  the  golden  head  and  kissed  the  wan,  vtret  face.  In 
*all  her  sixteen  years  of  life,  Lord  Ruysland  had  never  fully 
realized  how  he  loved  his  only  child  before. 

She  had  not  fainted.  The  high  courage  of  the  peer's  daugh- 
ter had  upheld  her  through  all.  She  half  raised  he  self  now, 
and  smiled  faintly. 


SIX   YEARS  BEFORE. 


mother, 
rrasp  of 
vith  the 
■escuer 

oar  and 
voices 

e  bank, 

ath.    . 

Mister 

sthiong 

lear  it ! 

3Ui;  yer- 

t  voice, 
er-dog. 
night -r 
,  to  try 
ists  the 
led  the 
beast  ! 
ni  off." 
sd  of  a 
;d  after 

:d,  and 

ss,  and  - 

Oh, 
'  a  day 


ht,  an' 
in  yer 
r." 

3ff  his 
irling, 
2  you 


297 


fright  and 


In 

fully 


nigh, 
now. 


"  Not  hurt,  only  stunned  a  little  by 
of  the  water.     And  you,  papa  ?  " 

"  I  am  perfectly  safe,  but — good  Heaven  !  what  an  escape 
it  has  been.  In  five  seconds  you  would  have  been  over  that 
horrible  gulf. — Why,  that  lad  has  the  heart  of  a  very  lion  !  the 
most  gallant  thing  I  ever  saw  done.  He  risked  his  life  without 
one  thought,  I  verily  believe.  A  brave  lad — a  brave  lad.  And 
he  has,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  too." 

Lanty  overheard,  and  looked  at  his  lordship  with  supreme 
disdain. 

"  A  gintleman,  is  it  ?  Faith  he  is  that,  an'  divil  thank  him 
for  it!  Shure  he's  the  O'Donnell— -no  less;  an'  iverybody 
knows  the  O'Donnells  wor  kings  and  princes  afore  the  time  o' 
Moses.  Gintleman,  indade  !  Oh,  thin  it's  himself  that  is, 
an'  his  father  an'  his  .ither's  father  afore  him.  Wern't  they 
kings  o'  Ulsther,  time  out  o'  mind,  and  didn't  they  own  ivery 
rood  an'  mile  av  the  counthry  ye're  travelin'  in  the  days 
o'  Henry  the  Eighth,  till  himself  wid  his  wives  an'  his  black- 
guarden  tuk  it  from  thim  an'  besthowed  it  on  dhirty  divils  like 
himself?  My  curse  an'  the  curse  o'  the  crows  on  him  and  thim, 
hot  an'  heavy  this  night !  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  earl ;  "  and  who  are  you,  my  good  fellow  ? 
A  retainer  of  that  kingly  and  fallen  house,  I  take  it  I " 

His  companion  gave  a  second  polite  duck  of  his  hairy  cap. 

"  I'm  Lant}',  yer  honor — Lanty  Lafferty,  av  it's  plazeen  to  ye 
— called  afther  me  grandfather  on  the  mother's  side — God  be 
good  to  him,  dacent  man !  I'm  Misther  Redmond's  own  man, 
an'  it's  proud  an'  happy  I  am  to  be  that  same." 

"You  like  your  young  master,  then  ?  " 

"  An'  why  wouldn't  I  like  him  ?  Is  there  a  man  or  baste  in 
the  County  Fermanagh  wudn't  shed  ther  last  dhrop  for  the 
O'Donnell.  More  betoken  there  isn't  his  like  for  a  free-handed, 
bould-hearted  gintleman  from  here  to  the  wurruld's  ind.  But, 
arrah,  why  nade  I  be  talkin' — sure  yer  honor  knows  for  yerself." 

"  I  do,  indeed,  and  I  honor  him  the  more  for  flying  to  escape 
my  gratitude.  But  as  we  are  to  be  neighbors,  I  perceive,  I 
insist  upon  our  being  friends.  Tell  him  it  is  my  earnest  wish — 
that  of  nt"  daughter,  too — that  he  shall  visit  us,  or  permit  us  to 
vir.it  him.  He  need  not  fear  being  overwhelmed  with  thanks-  - 
1  feel  what  he  has  done  too  deeply  to  turn  fine  phrases.  A 
brave  lad  and  a  gallant !  And  now,  if  you'll  guide  us  to  T;>rry« 
glen,  my  good  fellow,  you'll  do  us  a  last  great  service." 

"  I'll  do  that  wid  all  the  *  veins,'  "  cried  Lanty  Lafferty ;  "  it's 
13* 


298 


SIX   YEARS  BEFORE. 


no  distance  in  life  from  this.  Faix,  it  ud  be  a  thousand 
pities  av  the  purty  crathur  beside  ye  got  cowld,  for,  upon 
my  conscience,  it's  more  Uke  an  angel  she  is  than  a  young 
woman." 

Torryglen  lay  nestling  in  a  green  hollow  amid  the  rugged 
hills  and  waving  wealth  of  gorse  and  heather.  A  trim  little 
cottage  set  in  the  center  of  a  flower  garden,  and  fitted  up  within 
and  without  with  every  comfort  and  elegance.  The  earl's  valet 
and  Lady  Cecil's  maid  had  gone  on  in  advance,  and  glorious 
peat  fires,  dry  garments,  and  a  savory  dinner  awaited  them.  For 
Lanty  Lafferly,  he  was  regaled  in  the  kitchen,  and  when,  hours 
after,  he  sought  out  his  young  master,  he  was  glowing  and 
flowing  over  with  praises  of  "the  lord"  and  his  daughter. 

"  Oh,  the  darlin'  o'  the  worruld  !  Wid  a  face  like  roses  an' 
new  milk,  an'  two  eyes  av  her  own  that  ud  warm  the  very 
cockles  av'  yer  heart  only  to  look  at,  an'  hair  for  all  iver  ye 
seen  like  a  cup  of  coffee  !  " 

"  Coffee,  Lanty  ?  " 

"Ay,  coffee — an'  wirra  !  but  it's  little  av'  the  same  we  get  in 
this  house.  Shure  I  had  a  beautiful  cup  over  there  beyant  an 
hour  ago.  Like  coffee — not  too  sthrong,  mind — an'  with  jist  a 
notion  o'  crame.  That's  its  color;  an',  musha,  but  it's  as  purty 
a  color  as  ye'U  find  in  a  day's  walk.  An'  whin  she  looks  up  at 
ye — like  this  now — out  of  the  tail  av'  her  eye,  an'  wid  a  shmile 
on  her  beautiful  face — oh,  tare  an'  ages  !  av'  it  wudn't  make  an 
ould  man  young  only  to  look  at  her  ! " 

The  young  O'Donnell  laughed.  He  was  lying  at  full  length 
on  the  oak  floor — before  the  blazing  peat  fire — in  one  of  the 
few  habitable  rooms  tha*:  remained  of  what  had  once  been 
the  "  Castle  of  the  O'Donnell."  He  had  not  troubled  himself 
to  remove  his  wet  clothes — he  lay  there  steaming  unconcernedly 
before  the  blaze — a  book  at  his  side,  the  "  Iliad;" — a  superb 
specimen  of  youth,  and  strength,  and  handsome  health. 

"  She  appears  to  have  made  an  impression  upon  you,  Lanty. 
So  she  is  as  handsome  as  this,  is  she  ?  I  thought  so  myself, 
but  wasn't  sure,  and  I  hadn't  time  to  take  a  second  look  before 
his  lordship  rode  up,  and  I  made  off." 

"An'  wudn't  it  have  been  more  reasonable,  now,  and  more 
Christian-like,  to  have  stood  yer  ground  ?  Whin  an  O'Donnell 
niver  run  away  y)-^;«  danger,  arrah!  Where's  the  sinse  av' 
phowderin'  away  like  mad  afthcr  it  ?  Shure  he  wanted  to 
thank  ye,  and  so  did  the  illigant  young  crathur  hersilf." 

"The  very  reason  I  fled,  Lanty.     1  don't  want  their  thanks 


SIX   YEARS  BEFORE. 


299 


[thousand 
lor,  upon 
a  young 

rugged 
im  little 
[ip  within 
li's  valet 
glorious 
;m.    Por 
;n,  hours 
ing  and 
er. 

OSes  an' 
he  very 
iver  ye 


'e  get  m 

yant  an 
th  jist  a 
as  purty 
<s  uj)  at 
I  shniile 
lake  an 

I  length 
of  the 
-  been 
himself 
irnedly 
superb 

Lanty. 
nyself, 
before 

more 
annell 
;e  av' 
2d    to 

lanks 


*-* 


— I  don't  want  them,  for  that  matter.  What  are  they  coming 
here  for  ?  What  attraction  can  they  find  in  our  wild  mountain 
district  that  they  should  risk  their  necks  seeking  Torryglen  ? 
It  is  to  be  hoped  they  have  got  enough  of  it  by  this  time." 

"Troth,  then,  masther  darlin',  but  that  ould  lord's  a  nice, 
quiet,  mighty  civil-spoken  gintleman,  and  he  does  be  sayin'  he 
wants  you  to  call  and  see  him,  or  give  him  an'  the  fair-haired 
colleen  lave  to  come  up  here  an'  call  on  ye." 

"  On  me — call  on  me ! "  The  young  man  (he  was  two- 
and-twenty  or  thereabouts)  looked  up  with  a  short  laugh. 
"Oh,  yes,  let  him  visit  O'Donnell  Castle,  by  all  means.  See 
that  the  purple  drawing-room  is  swept  and  dusted,  Lanty,  and 
the  cobwebs  brushed  from  the  walls,  and  the  three  years'  grime 
and  soot  washed  from  the  windows.  See  that  the  footmen  wear 
their  best  liveries  and  put  on  their  brogues  for  the  occasion. 
Come  up  here  !  Upon  my  life,  this  lord's  daughter  will  be  en- 
chanted with  the  splendors  of  Castle  O'Donnell.  Lanty,  if 
they  do  happen  to  call,  which  isn't  likely — and  if  I  happen  to 
be  in,  which  also  isn't  Kicely — tell  them  I'm  up  in  the  mountains, 
or  in  the  moon ;  that  I've  gone  to  Ballynahaggart,  or — the 
devil — that  I'm  dead  and  buried,  if  you  like.  I  won't  see 
them.     Now  be  off." 

And  then  Mr.  Redmond  O'Donnell  went  back  to  the  sound- 
ing hexameters  of  his  "  Iliad,"  and  tried  in  poetry  to  forget ; 
but  the  fair  pale  face  of  the  earl's  daughter  arose  between  him 
and  the  page — wet,  wild,  woful,  as  he  had  seen  it,  with  the  fair 
streaming  hair,  the  light,  slender  form,  that  he  had  clutched 
from  the  very  hand  of  death.  And  she  was  coming,  this 
haughty,  high-born,  high-bred  English  patrician,  to  behold  the 
squalor,  and  the  povert)',  and  the  misery  of  this  heap  of  ruin 
called  O'Donnell  Castle,  to  make  a  scoff  and  a  wonder  of  Irish 
poverty  and  fallen  Irish  fortunes. 

"  I'll  not  see  them,"  the  youth  resolved,  his  handsome,  boyish, 
open  face  settling  into  a  look  of  sullen  determination.  "  I 
don't  want  their  visit  or  their  thanks.  I'll  be  off  up  the 
mountains  to-morrow,  and  stay  there  until  this  fine  English  lord 
and  his  daughter  leave,  which  will  be  before  long,  I'm  thinking. 
A  week  or  two  in  this  savage  district  will  suffice  for  them." 

But  still  the  fair  face  haunted  him — the  novelty  of  such  a 
neighbor  was  not  to  be  got  over.  He  flung  the  Iliad  away  at 
length,  and  going  out  on  the  grassy  plateau,  looked  down  the 
valley  to  where  the  cottage  lights  twinkled,  far  and  faint,  two 
miles  off.     And  from  her  chamber  window,  ere  she  went  to  bed, 


*s» 


III; 


300 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


Lady  Cecil  Clive  gazed  up  at  the  starlit  sky,  and  the  ruined 
towers  of  what  had  once  been  a  great  and  niiglity  stronghold. 
The  storm  had  spent  its  fury  and  passed,  the  autumn  stars,  hi rge 
and  white,  shone  out,  the  fresli  hillside  wind  blew  down  in  her 
fair  wistful  face.  It  was  a  sad  fate,  she  thought — the  last  scion 
of  a  kingly  and  beggared  race,  brave  as  a  lion  and  penniless  as 
a  i)auper,  dwelling  alone  in  that  ruined  pile,  and  wasting  liis 
youth  and  best  years  amid  the  wilds  of  this  ruined  land. 

"  Poor  fellow  I  "  Lady  Cecil  thought.  *'  So  young  and  so 
utterly  friendless  ! — too  proud  to  labor,  and  too  poor  to  live  as 
a  gentleman — wasting  his  life  in  these  savage  ruins  !  Papa  must 
do  something  for  him  when  we  return  to  England.  He  saved 
my  life  at  the  risk  of  his  own,  and  so  heavy  a  debt  of  gratitude 
as  that  must  be  paid." 


CHAPTER  X. 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


N  very  small  things  hinge  very  great  events. 

A  horse  minus  a  shoe  changed  the  whole  course  of 
Redmond  O'Donnell's  life — altered  his  entire  destiny. 
He  neither  went  to  the  mountains  nor  the  moon,  to 
Ballynahaggart  nor  the — dark  majesty  of  the  Inferno.  He 
staid  at  home,  and  he  saw  the  Earl  of  Ruysland  and  the  Lady 
Cecil  Clive. 

It  happened  thus  :  Going  to  the  stables  next  morning  to 
saddle  his  favorite  mare,  Kathleen,  he  found  her  in  need  of  the 
blacksmith's  services.  Lanty  led  her  off,  and  returning  to  the 
house,  the  young  O'Donnell  came  face  to  face  with  his  English 
visitors. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  mute  with  surprise  and  chagrin. 
He  had  not  dreamed  in  the  remotest  way  of  their  coming  so 
soon,  or  so  early,  and — here  they  were  !  Escape  was  impossi- 
ble ;  they  were  before  him  ;  and  by  birth  and  training,  by  race 
and  nature,  the  lad  was  a  gentleman.  He  took  off  his  cap, 
and  the  young  mountaineer  bowed  to  the  earl's  daughter  like  a 
prince.  Lord  Ruysland  advanced  with  extended  hand  and  his 
sweetest  smile. 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


301 


"  Ah,  Mr.  O'Donnell,  you  fled  ingloriously  before  me  yester- 
day— not  like  an  O'Donnell,  by  the  bye,  to  fly  even  from  grati- 
tude. No — don't  look  so  alarmed — nobody  is  going  to  thank 
you.  You  saved  my  daughter's  life  at  the  imminent  risk  of 
your  own — a  mere  trifle,  not  worth  mentioning.  Cecil,  my 
dear,  come  and  shake  hands  with  our  young  hero  of  yesterday 
— ah,  I  beg  pardon  !  I  promised  to  call  no  names.  Mr.  Red- 
mond O'Donnell,  I^adv  Cecil  Clive." 

And  then  two  large,  soft  eyes  of  "liquid  light  "  looked  up  into 
his,  a  little  gray-gloved  hand  was  given,  a  little,  soft,  low  voice 
murmured  something — poor  Mr.  Redmond  O'Donnell  never 
knew  what — and  from  that  moment  his  doom  was  sealed. 
Sudden,  perhaps  ;  but  then  this  you/g  man  was  an  Irishman — 
everything  is  said  in  that. 

He  flung  open  the  half-hingeless,  wholly  lockless  front  door, 
and  led  the  way,  with  some  half-laughing  apology  for  the  tumble- 
down state  of  O'Donnell  Castle. 

"  ]3on't  blame  us,  Lord  Ruysland,"  the  young  man  said, 
half-gayly,  half-sadly ;  "blame  your  own  countrymen  and  con- 
fiscation. We  were  an  improvident  race,  perhaps,  but  when 
they  took  our  lands  and  our  country  from  us,  we  let  the  little 
they  left  go  to  rack  and  ruin.  When  a  man  loses  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  or  so,  it  doesn't  seem  worth  his  while  to 
hoard  very  carefully  the  dozen  or  so  of  shillings  remaining.  Lady 
Cecil,  will  you  take  this  seat  ?  We  can  give  you  a  fine  view, 
at  least,  from  our  windows,  if  we  can  give  you  nothing  else." 

The  earl  and  his  daughter  were  loud  in  their  praises.  It 
was  fine.  Miles  of  violet  and  purple  heather,  here  and  there 
touched  with  golden,  green,  or  rosy  tinges,  blue  hills  melting 
into  the  bluer  sky,  and  deepest  blue  of  all,  the  wide  sea,  spread- 
ing miles  away,  sparkling  in  the  sunshine  as  if  sown  with  -tars. 

They  remained  nearly  an  hour.  The  young  seigneur  oi  this 
ruined  castle  conducted  them  to  the  gates — nay,  to  the  two 
huge  buttresses,  where  gates  once  had  been — and  stood,  cap  in 
hand,  watching  them  depart.  And  so,  with  the  sunshine  on  his 
handsome,  tanned  face,  on  his  uncovered,  tall  head,  Lady 
Cecil  bore  away  the  image  of  Redmond  O'Donnell. 

You  know  this  story  before  I  tell  it.  She  was  sixteen  years 
of  age — he  had  saved  her  life,  risking  his  own  to  save  it,  with- 
out a  moment's  thought,  and  like  a  true  woman,  she  adored 
bravery  almost  above  all  other  things  in  man.  She  pitied  him 
unspeakably,  so  proud,  so  poor,  so  noble  of  birth  and  ancestry, 
a  descendant  of  kings,  and  a  pauper.     And  he  had  an  eye  like 


302 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


\  ! 

Si 

I 


: 


an  eagle,  a  voice  tender  and  spirited  together,  and  a  smile — a 
smile.  Lady  Cecil  thought,  bright  as  the  sunshine  on  yonder 
Ulster  hills.  It  was  love  at  first  sight — boy  and  giri  love,  of 
course ;  and  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  shrewd  old  worldling  that 
he  was,  might  have  known  it  very  well  if  he  had  given  the  sub- 
ject one  thought.  But  he  did  not.  He  was  a  great  deal  too 
absorbed  in  his  own  persunal  concerns  about  this  time  to  havt 
much  solicitude  about  his  little  daughter's  affaires  du  cceur. 
Lady  Cecil  had  pitied  Redmond  O'Donnell  for  being  a  pauper, 
without  in  the  least  dreaming  she  was  one  herself.  Through 
no  fancy  for  the  country,  through  no  desire  to  ameliorate  the 
condition  of  the  inhabitants,  had  my  lord  come  to  Ireland. 
Crim  poverty  had  driven  him  hither,  and  was  likely  to  keep 
him  here  for  some  time  to  come. 

His  life  had  been  one  long  round  of  pleasure  and  excess,  of 
luxury  and  extravagance.  He  had  come  into  a  fortune  when 
he  attained  his  majority,  and  squandered  it.  He  came  into 
another  when  he  married  his  wealthy  wife,  and  scjuandered  that, 
too.  Now  he  was  over  head  and  ears  in  debt.  Clive  Court  was 
mortgaged  past  all  redemption — in  flight  was  his  only  safety ; 
and  he  fled — to  Ireland.  There  was  that  little  hunting-box  of 
his  among  the  Ulster  hills — Torryglen ;  he  could  have  that 
made  habitable,  and  go  there,  and  rough  it  until  the  storm  blew 
over.  Roughing  it  himself,  he  did  not  so  much  mind. 
*'  Roughing  it,"  in  his  phraseology,  meaning  a  valet  to  wait 
upon  him,  all  the  elegancies  of  his  life  transported  from  his 
Belgravian  lodgings,  and  a  first-rate  cook — but  there  was  his 
daughter.  For  the  first  time  in  her  sixteen  years  of  life  she 
was  thrown  upon  his  hands.  At  her  birth,  and  her  mother's 
death,  she  had  been  placed  out  at  nurse  ;  at  the  age  of  three, 
a  cousin  of  her  mother's,  living  in  Paris,  had  taken  her,  and 
brought  her  up.  Brought  her  up  on  strictly  French  principles 
• — taught  her  that  love  and  courtship,  as  English  girls  under- 
stand them,  are  indelicate,  criminal  almost ;  that  for  the  pres- 
ent she  must  attend  to  her  books,  her  music,  her  drawing,  and 
embroidery,  and  that  when  the  proper  time  came,  she  would 
receive  her  husband  as  she  did  her  jewelry  and  dresses — from 
the  hand  of  papa.  Papa  came  to  see  her  tolerably  often, 
took  her  with  him  once  in  a  while  when  he  visited  his  friend 
i.nd  crony.  Sir  John  Tregenna  ;  and  she  was  told  if  she  were  a 
good  girl  she  should  one  day,  when  properly  grown  up,  marry 
young  Arthur  and  be  Lady  Tregenna  herself,  and  queen  it  in 
this  old   sea-girt   Cornish   castle.      And    little   Cecil   always 


■ 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


303 


smile — a 
yonder 
love,  of 
ling  that 
the  sub- 
deal  too 
to  have 
iiu  codur, 
pauper, 
Through 
rate  the 
Ireland, 
to  keep 

xcess,  of 
ne  when 

me  into 
red  that, 
ourt  was 
'  safety ; 
g-box  of 
we  that 
irni  blew 
\    mind. 

to  wait 
"rom  his 

was  his 
"life  she 
Mother's 
)f  three, 
ler,  and 
inciples 
5  under- 
lie pres- 
ng,  and 
;  would 
3 — from 
f  often, 
s  friend 

were  a 
I,  marry 
en  it  ill 

always 


laughed  and  dimpled,  and  danced  away  and  thought  no  more 
about  it.  She  had  seen  very  little  of  Arthur  Tregenna — she  was 
somewhat  in  awe  of  him,  as  has  been  said.  He  was  so  grave, 
so  wise,  so  learned,  and  she  was  such  a  frivolous  little  butterfly, 
dancing  in  the  sunshine,  eating  bonbons,  and  singing  from 
morning  till  night. 

Her  first  grief  was  the  death  of  the  kind  Gallicized  English- 
woman who  had  been  her  second  mother.  Her  father,  on  the 
eve  of  his  Irish  exile,  went  to  Paris,  brought  her  with  him,  and 
her  old  bonny  Ther^se,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  little 
Lady  Cecil  met  with  an  adventure,  and  became  a  heroine. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  will  call  upon  us  !  "  she  thought  now,  as  she 
walked  homeward  through  the  soft  autumn  noonday — the  per- 
sonal pronoun  of  course  having  reference  to  the  young  O'Don- 
nell.  "  He  did  not  really  promise,  but  I  think — 1  think  he 
looked  as  though  he  would  like  to  come.  It  would  be  pleas- 
ant to  have  some  one  to  talk  to,  when  papa  is  away,  and  he 


-the  town  with 
very  poor  he 


tells  me  he  will  be  away  a  great  deal  at  Bally- 
the  unpronbunceable  Irish  name.  How  very, 
seems  ;  his  jacket  was  quite  shabby ;  his  whole  dress  like  that 
of  the  peasantry.  And  such  a  tumble-down  place — only  fit 
for  owls,  and  bats,  and  rooks.  Papa  (aloud),  you  have  a  great 
deal  of  influence,  and  many  friends  in  England — could  you  do 
nothing  for  this  Mr.  O'Donnell  ?  He  seems  so  dreadfully  poor, 
papa." 

The  earl  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed.  "  My  little, 
unsophi.'.ticated  Cecil !  A  great  deal  of  influ'^nce  and  many 
friends  !  My  dear,  I  have  not  influence  enough  to  keep  myself 
out  of  the  bankrupt  court,  nor  friends  enough  to  enable  me  to 
stay  in  England.  Do  you  think  I  would  come  to  this  con- 
founded, half-civihzed  land,  if  I  could  stay  away  ?  Poor,  in- 
deed !  Your  Mr.  O'Donnell  isn't  half  as  poor  as  I  am,  for  at 
least  I  suppose  he  isn't  very  deeply  in  debt." 

His  daughter  looked  at  him  in  sheer  surprise.  "  And  yon 
are,  papa  ?  You  poor  ?  Poor  I "  she  tried  to  comprehend  it, 
shook  her  head,  and  gave  it  up.  *'  I  always  thought  you  were 
rich,  papa — I  always  thought  English  peers  had  more  money 
than  they  knew  what  to  do  with.  How  can  we  be  poor — with 
servants,  and  horses,  and  plate,  and — " 

"One  must  have  the  necessities  of  life,  child,"  her  father 
broke  in  impatiently,  **  as  long  as  they  are  living.  One  can't 
go  back  to  primitive  days,  and  live  in  a  wigwam,  or  in  a  rickety 
rookery  like  that.     I  wish  to  Heaven  one  could — I'd  try  it.     I 


f 


3C4 


AN  IRISH  ID  YL. 


tell  you  I  haven't  a  farthing  in  the  v/orkl — yon  may  as  well 
learn  it  now  as  later  ;  and  liave  more  clel)ts  than  I  can  ever 
pay  off  from  now  to  the  crack  of  doom.  1  don't  want  to  pay. 
While  I'm  in  hiding  here  I'll  try  to  compromise  in  some  way 
with  my  confounded  creditors  and  the  Jews.  Poor,  indeed  ! 
]5y  Jove  !  we  may  live  and  die  in  this  Irish  exile,  for  what  I 
see,"  the  earl  said  with  a  sort  of  groan. 

A  little  smile  dimjiied  Lady  Cecil's  rose-bud  fiice,  a  happy 
light  shone  in  her  gold-brown  eyes.  She  glanced  at  the  htlle 
cottage  nestling  in  its  green  cup,  myrtle  and  clematis  climbing 
over  it,  at  the  fair  fields,  daisy  spangled,  at  the  glowing  uplands 
in  their  i)ur[)le  dress,  at  the  rugged  towers  of  the  old  castle 
boldly  outlined  against  the  soft  sunny  sky,  with  a  face  that 
showed  to  her  at  least  the  prospect  of  an  eternal  Irish  exile 
had  no  terrors. 

"  Very  well,  papa,"  she  said,  dreamily ;  "  suppose  we  do  ? 
It's  a  very  pretty  place,  I'm  sure,  and  if  we  are  poor  it  surely 
will  not  fake  much  to  keep  us  here.  While  I  have  you  and 
Thorcse  and  my  books  and  piano,  /  am  content  to  stay  here 
forever." 

Her  father  turned  and  looked  at  her,  astonishment  and  dis- 
gust struggling  in  his  face. 

"  Good  Heaven !  listen  to  her !  Content  to  stay  here  ! 
Yes,  and  live  on  potatoes  like  the  natives,  and  convert  the 
skins  into  clothing,  to  go  barefooted  and  wear  striped  linsey- 
woolsey  gowns  reaching  below  the  knee,  talk  with  a  melhtluous 
North  of  Ireland  accent,  and  end  by  marrying  Lanty  Lafferty, 
I  suppose,  or  the  other  fellow  Mickey,  If  you  can't  talk  sense, 
Cecil,  hold  your  tongue  ! " 

Lady  Cecil  blushed  and  obeyed.  Marry  Lanty  Lafferty ! 
No,  she  would  hardly  do  that.  But  oh,  Cecil,  whence  that  rosy 
blush?  Whence  that  droop  of  the  fair,  fresh  face?  Whence 
that  sudden  rising  in  your  mind  of  the  tall  figure,  the  bold  flash- 
ing eyes  of  Redmond  O'Donnell?  Is  this  why  the  Irish  exile 
is  robbed  of  its  terrors  for  you  ? 

"  No,  no,"  the  earl  said,  after  a  little,  as  his  daughter  re- 
mained silent.  "We'll  get  out  of  this  howling  wilderness  of 
roaring  rivers,  and  wild  young  chieftains,  and  tumble-down  cas- 
tles as  speedily  as  we  can.  I  have  one  hope  left,  and  that  is — " 
he  looked  at  her  keenly — "  in  you,  my  dear." 

"  I,  papa  ? "  _  '       . 

"  Yes ;  in  your  marriage.  What's  the  child  blushing  at  ?  In 
a  year  or  two  you'll  be   old  enough,  and  Tregenna  will  be 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


305 


ly  as  well 
can  ever 
t  to  pay. 

ioine  way 
iiuloed  ! 

T  what  J 

a  happy 
the  httle 
ch'mbing 
uplands 
d  castle 
ace  that 
sh  exile 

we  do  ? 

it  surely 
you  and 
tay  here 

and  dis- 

y  here  I 
I'ert  the 
1  linsey- 
Ihfliious 
^afferty, 
<  sense, 

afferty ! 
lat  rosy 
Vhence 
d  flash- 
h  exile 

Iter  re- 
ness  of 
vn  cas- 
t  is—" 


t?     In 
vill  be 


back  in  England.  Of  course  you  know  it  has  been  an  under- 
stood thing  these  many  years  that  you  were  to  marry  him  when 
^ou  grew  up.  He  is  perfectly  ready  to  fulfill  the  compact,  and 
certiiinly  you  will  be.  You  have  been  brought  up  in  a  way  to 
understand  this.  Tregenna  is  rich,  monstrously  rich,  and  won't 
sec  his  father-in-law  up  a  tree.  I  give  you  my  word  he  is  my 
last  hope — your  marriage  with  him,  I  mean.  I  will  try  and 
compromise  with  my  creditors,  I  say,  and  when  things  are 
straightened  out  a  bit  we'll  go  back  to  England.  You  shall  be 
presented  at  court,  and  will  make,  I  rather  fancy,  a  sensation. 
We  will  let  you  enjoy  yourself  for  your  first  season,  and  when  it 
is  over  we  will  marry  you  comfortably  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna." 

And  Lady  Cecil  listened  with  drooping  eyelids.  It  seemed 
to  her  all  right — French  girls  married  in  this  judicious  way,  all 
trouble  of  love-making  and  that  nonsense  being  taken  off  their 
hands  by  kindly  parents  and  guardians.  She  listened,  and  if 
she  did  not  say  so  in  words  said  in  effect,  with  Thackeray's  hero, 
Mr.  Foker,  "  Very  well,  sir,  as  you  like  it.  When  you  want 
me,  please  ring  the  bell,"  and  then  fell  into  thought  once  more, 
and  wondered  dreamily  if  young  O'Donnell  would  call  that  even- 
ing at  Torryglen. 

Young  O'Donnell  called.  The  little  drawing-room  of  the 
cottage  was  lit  with  waxlights,  a  peat  fire  burned  on  the  hearth, 
a  bright-hued  carpet  covered  the  floor,  tinted  paper  hung  the 
walls,  and  pretty  sunny  pictures  gemmed  them.  It  was  half 
drawing-room,  half  library,  one  side  being  lined  with  books.  A 
little  cottage  piano  stood  between  the  front  windows — Lady 
Cecil  sat  at  that — a  writing-desk  occupied  the  other  side — his 
lordship  sat  at  that.  Such  a  contrast  to  the  big,  bare,  bleak, 
lonesome  rooms  at  home — their  only  music  the  scamper  of  the 
rats,  the  howling  of  the  wind,  and  Lanty's  Irish  lilting. 

The  contrast  came  upon  him  with  a  pang  of  almost  pain; 
the  gulf  between  himself  and  these  people,  whose  equal  by 
birth  he  was,  had  not  seemed  half  so  sharp  before.  Lady  Cecil, 
in  crisp,  white  muslin  and  blue  ribbons,  with  diamond  drops  in 
her  ears  and  twinkling  on  her  slim  fingers,  seemed  as  far  above 
him  as  some  "  bright  particular  star,"  etc.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway  for  a  moment  irresolute,  abashed,  sorry  he  had  come, 
ashamed  of  his  shabby  jacket  and  clumping  boots.  The  earl, 
with  pen  in  his  hair  like  some  clerk,  looked  up  from  his  pile  of 
papers  and  nodded  familiarly. 

"  Ah,  O'Donnell — how  do  ?     Come  in.    Been  expecting  you. 
Very  "busy,  you  see — must  excuse  me.     Cecil  will  entertain  you 


it 


306 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


— give  him  some  music,  my  dear."  And  then  my  lord  went 
back  to  his  nai)crs — bills,  duns,  accounts,  no  end — with  knitted 
brows  and  absorbed  mind,  and  lorgot  in  half  a  minute  such  an 
individual  asO'DonncU  existed. 

Redmond  went  over  to  the  piano  ;  how  bright  the  smile  of 
girlis'.i  pleasure  with  which  the  little  huly  welcomed  him. 
'•'  Would  he  sit  here  ? — did  he  like  music  ? — would  he  turn  the 
l)agcs  for  her ? — was  he  fond  of  Moore's  melodies?"  In  this 
brilliant  and  original  way  the  conversation  commenced. 

"Yes,  he  liked  music,  and  he  was  very  fond  of  Moore's  mel- 
odies. Would  she  please  go  on  with  that  she  was  singing  ?  " 
It  was,  "She  was  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero 
sleeps,"  and  the  tender  young  voice  was  full  of  the  pathos  and 
sweetness  of  the  beautiful  song. 

"  He  lived  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died,"  sang  Lady 
Cecil,  and  glanced  under  her  long,  brown  lashes  at  the  grave, 
dark  face  beside  her.  "Robert  Ennnet  must  have  looked  like 
that,"  she  thought ;  "  he  seems  as  though  he  could  die  for  his 
country  too.  I  suppose  his  ancestors  have.  1  wish — I  wish — 
papa  could  do  something  for  him,  or — Sir  Arthur  Tregenna." 

I3ut  somehow  it  was  unpleasant  to  think  of  Sir  Arthur,  and 
her  mind  shifted  away  from  him.  She  finished  her  song,  and 
discovered  Mr.  O'Donnell  could  sing — had  a  very  fine  and 
highly  cultivated  voice,  indeed,  and  was  used  to  the  piano  ac- 
companiment. 

"  1  used  to  sing  with  my  sister,"  he  explained,  in  answer  to 
her  involuntary  look  of  surprise.     "  She  plays  very  well." 

"  Your  sister  1  why  I  thought — " 

"  I  had  none.  Oh,  yes  I  have — very  jolly  little  girl  Rose  is, 
too — I  rather  think  you  would  like  her.  I  am  quite  sure,"  Mr. 
O'Donnell  blushed  a  little  himself  as  he  turned  this  first  com- 
pliment, "she  would  \^q. you.^^ 

"And  will  she  come  here?  How  glad  I  am.  Will  she 
come  soon  ?     1  am  certain  I  shall  like  her." 

Redmond  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "she  will  not  come  here  at  all — never,  in  all 
likelihood.  She  is  in  America — in  New  Orleans,  living  wiih 
her  grandfather.     A  Frenchman,  Lady  Cecil." 

"  A  Frenchman  !      Your  sister's  grandfather?" 

"Yes — an  odd  mixture,  you  think,"  smiling.  "You  see. 
Lady  Cecil,  when  rny  father  was  a  young  man,  he  fought  in  the 
Mexican  war  under  General  Scott.  We  are  a  fighting  race,  I 
must  inform  you — war  is  our  trade.     When  the  Mexican  wai 


I 


^'■Mfc.^: 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


lord  went 
itli  kniftccl 
tc  such  ail 

e  smile  of 
iicd  him. 
L'  turn  the 
in  this 
•d. 

>orc's  mcl- 
siiiging  ?  " 
>iing  hero 
•athos  and 

ang  Lady 
die  grave, 
>oked  hke 
lie  for  his 
-I  wish — . 
•genna." 
diiir,  and 
song,  and 
fine  and 
Jiano  ac- 

mswer  fo 

Rose  is, 
ire,"  Mr. 
rst  com- 

IVill  she 


'r,  in  all 
ing  with 


oil  see. 
It  in  the 
race,  I 
:an  wa/ 


307 


ended,  he  went  to  New  Orleans,  and  there  he  met  a  young  Indy 
— French,  and  a  great  heiress — a  beauty  too,  though  she  7vas 
my  mother.  Well,  Lady  Cecil,  she  fell  in  love  with  the  dash- 
ing Irish  t''ooper — her  friends  were  frantic,  and  she  elopod  with 
him.  A  lomantic  story,  is  it  not?  He 'jrought  her  here — it 
must  have  been  a  contrast  to  the  luxury  of  her  French  home. 
Her  father  refused  to  forgive  her — returned  all  her  letters  un- 
opened, and  here  she  lived  seven  years,  and  here  slie  died  and 
was  buried.  I'll  show  jou  her  grave  some  day  in  the  church- 
yard of  Uallynahaggart.  I  was  six — Rose  one  year  old.  Her 
father  heard  of  her  death — not  through  mine  ;  he  never  wrote 
or  held  any  communication  with  him — and  he  relented  at  last. 
Came  all  the  way  over  here,  nearly  broken-hearted,  and  wanted 
to  become  reconciled.  But  my  father  sternly  and  bitterly  re- 
fused. He  offered  to  take  Rose  and  me,  and  bring  us  up,  and 
leave  us  his  fortune  when  he  died ;  but  still  he  was  refused, 
iie  returned  to  New  Orleans,  and  three  months  after  Father 
Ryan  of  Bally nahaggart  v;rote  him  word  of  my  father's  death. 
He  had  never  held  up  his  head  after  my  mother's  loss. 

"They  sent  us  both  out  there.  Young  as  I  was,  I  resisted 
— all  the  bitterness  of  my  father  had  descended  to  me  ;  lut  I 
resisted  in  vain.  We  went  out  to  New  Orleans,  and  now  I 
look  back  upon  my  life  there  as  a  sort  of  indistinct  dream  or 
fairy  tale.  The  warmth,  the  tropical  beauty,  and  the  luxuriance 
of  my  grandfather's  house,  come  back  to  me  in  dreams  some- 
.  times,  and  I  wake  to  see  the  rough  rafters  and  mildewed  walls 
of  the  old  castle.  I  stayed  there  with  him  until  I  was  nine- 
teen, then  I  refused  to  stay  longer.  He  had  despised  my  father 
and  shortened  my  mother's  life  by  his  cruelty — I  would  not 
stay  a  dependent  on  his  bounty.  It  was  boyish  bravado,  per- 
haps, Lady  Cecil,  but  I  felt  all  I  said.  I  left  New  Orleans 
and  Rose,  and  came  here,  and  here  I  have  been  running  wild, 
and  becoming  the  savage  you  find  me.  But  I  like  the  freedom 
of  the  life  in  spite  of  its  poverty  ;  I  would  not  exchange  it  for 
the  silken  indolence  and  luxury  of  Menadarva,  my  Louisianian 
home.  And  here  I  shall  remain  until  an  opportunity  ofters  to 
go,  as  all  my  kith  and  kin  have  gone  before  me,  and  earn  my 
livelihood  at  the  point  of  my  sword." 

Lady  Cecil  listened.     She  liked  all  this  ;  she  liked  the  lad's' 
spirit  in  refusing  for  himself  that  which  had  been  refused  his 
mother.     Not  good  seuje,  perhaps,  but  sound  chivalry. 

"  You  will  go  out  to  India,  I  suppose,"  she  said  ;  "  there  al- 
ways seems  to  be  fighting  there  for  those  who  want  it." 


,3.  * 


'3o8 


AN  IRISH  IDYL, 


The  young  man's  brow  darkened. 

"India?"  he  said  ;  "no.  No  O'Donnell  ever  fought  under 
the  English  flag — I  will  not  be  the  first.  Years  ago,  Lady 
Cecil — two  hundred  and  more — all  thir.  country  you  see  be- 
longed to  us,  and  they  confiscated  it,  and  left  us  houseless  and 
outlaws.  The  O'Donnell  of  that  day  swore  a  terrible  oath  that 
none  oi  his  race  should  ever  fight  for  the  British  invader,  and 
none  of  them  ever  have.  I  shall  seek  service  under  a  foreign 
flag — it  doesn't  matter  which,  so  that  it  is  not  that  of  your  na- 
tion, Lady  Cecil." 

Lady  Cecil  pouted — said  it  was  unchristian  and  unforgiving, 
but  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  liked  it  all,  and  wished,  with 
Desdemona,  that  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man.  Red- 
mond O'Donnell  lingered  until  the  earl  yawned  audibly  over 
his  musty  accounts,  and  the  little  ormolu  clock  ticked  off  half- 
past  ten,  and  walked  homeward  under  the  moonlight  and  star- 
light, feeling  that  the  world  had  suddenly  beautified,  and  this 
lowly  valley  had  become  a  very  garden  of  Eden,  with  the 
sweetest  Eve  that  ever  smiled  among  the  roses. 

That  first  evening  was  but  the  beginning  of  the  end.  The 
visits,  the  music,  the  duets,  reading — the  walks  "  o'er  the  moor 
among  the  heather,"  the  rides  over  the  autumn  hills,  with  Red- 
mond O'Donnell  for  cavalier,  the  sketching  of  the  old  castle — 
the  old,  old,  old,  endless  story  of  youth  and  love,  told  since  the 
world  began — to  be  told  till  the  last  trump  shall  sound. 

Lord  Ruysland  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing — was  as  unsuspi- 
cious as  though  he  were  not  a  "  battered  London  rake  "  and  a 
thorough  man  of  the  world.  His  impecunious  state  filled  his 
mind  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else,  and  then  Cecil  had 
been  so  well  broi'ght  up,  etc.  The  child  must  walk  and  ride, 
and  must  have  a  companion.  Young  O'Donnell  was  a  beggar 
— literally  a  beggar — and  of  course  might  as  well  fix  his  foolish 
affections  on  one  of  her  Majesty's  daughters  as  upon  that  of  the 
Earl  of  Ruysland. 

He  was  awakened  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  from  his  dream 
and  his  delusion.  Seven  weeks  had  passed — the  ides  of  No- 
vember had  come — the  chill  autumn  blasts  were  whistling 
drearily  over  the  mountains.  He  was  sick  and  tired  to  death 
of  his  enforced  exile  ;  affairs  had  been  patched  up  in  some  way, 
a  compromise  effected ;  he  might  venture  to  show  his  face  once 
more  across  the  Channel.  In  a  week  or  two  at  the  farthest  he 
would  start. 

He  sat  complacently  thinking  this  over  alone  in  the  drawing- 


AN  IRISH  ID  YL. 


309 


room,  when  the  door  opened.  Gregory,  his  man,  ?nnounced 
"  Mr.  O'Donnell,"  and  vanished. 

"  Ah,  Redmond,  my  lad,  glad  to  see  you.  Come  in — come 
in.     Cecil's  upstairs.     I'll  send  for  her." 

But  Mr.  O'Donnell  interrupted  ;  he  did  not  wish  La  ly  Cecil 
sent  for — at  least  just  yet.  He  wished  to  si>eak  to  the  earl 
alone. 

He  was  so  embarrassed,  so  unlike  himself — bold,  frank,  free, 
as  he  habitually  was — that  Lord  Ruysland  looked  at  him  in 
surprise.     That  look  was  enough — it  told  him  all. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  he  thought,  "  what  an  ass  I  have  been. 
Of  course,  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  her — arn't  matrimony  and 
murder  the  national  pastimes  of  this  delightful  island  ?  And 
very  likely  she  has  fallen  in  love  with  iiim — the  young  savage 
is  so  confoundedly  good-looking." 

He  was  right.  While  he  sat  thinking  this,  Redmond  O'Don- 
nell was  pouring  into  his  ear  the  story  of  his  love  and  h.s  hoj^es. 

"  It  was  his  madness  to  worship  her  "  (he  was  very  young 
and  inclined  to  hyperbole),  "  to  adore  her.  He  was  poor,  he 
knew,  but  he  was  young,  and  the  world  was  all  before  him.  He 
would  wait- — ay,  as  long  as  his  lordship  pleased— he  would  win 
a  name,  a  fortune,  a  title,  it  might  be,  and  lay  them  at  her  feet. 
One  O'Donnell  had  done  it  in  Spain  already — what  any  man 
had  done  he  could  do.  His  birth,  at  least,  was  equal  to  hers. 
He  asked  nothing  now  but  this  :  Only  let  him  hope — let  him  go 
forth  into  the  world  and  win  name  and  fame,  lay  them  at  her 
feet,  and  claim  her  as  his  wife.  He  loved  her — no  one  in  this 
world  would  ever  love  her  again  better  than  he."  And  then  he 
broke  down  all  at  once  and  turned  away  and  waited  for  bis 
answer. 

The  earl  kept  a  grave  face— it  spoke  volumes  for  his  admir- 
able training  and  high  good  breeding.  He  did  not  laugh  in 
this  wild  young  enthusiast's  face  ;  he  did  not  fly  into  a  passion  ; 
he  did  nothing  rude  or  unpleasant,  and  he  did  not  make  a  scene. 

"  Mr.  O'Donnell's  affection  did  his  daugiitcr  much  honor," 
he  said  ;  "  certainly  he  was  her  equal,  her  sunerior,  indeed,  in 
point  of  birth  ;  and  as  to  making  a  name  for  himself,  and  win- 
ning a  fortune,  of  course,  there  ccuM  not  be  a  doubt  as  to  thai 
with  a  young  man  of  his  indomitable  courage  and  determina- 
tion. But  was  it  possible  Lady  Cecil  had  not  already  told  him 
she  was  engaged?" 

"  Engaged  I  "  The  young  man  could  but  just  gasp  the  word, 
pale  and  wild.     "  Engaged  ?  " 


310 


AN  IRISH  ID^L. 


"Most  certainly — from  her  very  childhood — to  the  wealthy 
Cornish  baronet,  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  She  had  given  her 
promise  to  marry  him  of  her  own  free  will — the  wedding,  in  all 
probability,  would  take  place  upon  her  eighteenth  birthday. 
Really  now  it  was  quite  inexcusable  of  Queenie  not  to  have 
mentioned  this.  But  it  was  just  possible — she  was  so  very 
young,  and  Mr.  O'Donnell  was  a  man  of  honor — perhaps  he 
was  doing  him  injustice  in  thinking  he  liad  made  a  declaration 
to  her  in  person  ?  " 

"No."  Young  O'Donnell  had  not.  He  was  so  white,  so 
wild,  so  despairing-looking,  that  the  earl  was  getting  alarmed. 
A  scene !  and  oh,  Jiow  he  abhorred  scenes  !  "  He  had  not 
spoken  to  her  on  the  subject — he  never  had — he  wished  to  ob- 
tain her  father's  consent  first." 

The  earl  grasped  his  hand  with  effusion. 

"  My  lad,  you're  a  gentleman  from  head  to  foot.  I  am  proud 
of  you  !  Have  you — has  she — I  mean  do  you  think  your  affec- 
tion is  returned  ?  Oh  !  don't  blush  and  look  modest — it  isn't 
the  most  unlikely  thing  on  earth.  Do  you  think  Cecil^returns 
your  very — ah  !  'pon  my  life — ardent  devotion  ?  " 

Young  O'Donnell  stood  looking  handsome  and  modest  before 
him. 

"  He  did  not  like  to  say — but  he  hoped." 

•*  Oh,  of  course  you  do,"  the  earl  supplemented,  "  and  very 
strongly  too.  Well,  my  lad,  you  deserve  something  for  the  ad- 
mirable and  honorable  manner  in  which  you  have  acted,  and 
you  shall  have  your  reward.  Cecil  shall  wait  for  you  if  she 
wishes  it !  No,  don't  thank  me  yet ;  hear  me  out.  You  are 
to  spend  this  evening  here,  are  you  not  ?  Well,  as  you  have 
been  silent  so  long,  be  silent  yet  a  little  longer.  Don't  say  a 
word  to  her.  To-morrow  morning  I  will  lay  all  this  before  her 
myself,  and  if  she  prefers  the  penniless  Irishman  to  the  rich 
Cornishman,  why,  Heaven  forbid  /  should  force  her  affections  ! 
I  can  trust  to  you  implicitly,  I  know,  and  this  time  to-morrow 
come  over  to  see  us  again,  and  you  shall  have  your  answer." 

He  would  not  listen  to  the  young  man's  ardent  thanks;  he 
pushed  him  good-naturedly  away  and  arose. 

"  Thank  me  to-morrow^"  he  said,  '*  if  Queenie  prefers  love 
in  a  cottage  to  thirty  thousand  a  year — not  before." 

The  sneer  in  his  voice  was  imperceptible,  but  it  was  there. 
Half  an  hour  after  the  earl  sought  out  Gregory,  his  valet  and 
manager. 

"We  leave  at  daybreak  to-morrow  morning.  Or*  ,;ory,"  he 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


311 


le  wealthy 
given  her 
cling,  in  all 
birthday. 
)t  to  have 
IS  so  very 
)erhaps  he 
leclaration 

)  white,  so 
\  alarmed, 
e  had  not 
hed  to  ob- 


'.  am  proud 
your  affec- 
st — it  isn't 
jcitieturns 

dest  before 


"and  very 
for  the  ad- 
acted,  and 
you  if  she 
You  are 
5  you  have 
Oon't  say  a 
before  her 
to  the  rich 
affections  ! 
to-morrow 
answer." 
thanks ;  he 

irefers  love 

was  there. 
1  valet  and 


•ogory; 


he 


said;  "Lady  Cecil  and  I.  You  will  remain  behind,  pack  up 
everything,  and  follow  latei  in  the  day.  Not  a  word,  however, 
to  Lady  Cecil." 

That  evening — the  last — when  Redmond  O'Donnell's  hair  is 

J  gray,  I  fancy  it  will  stand  out  distinct  from  all  other  evenings 

in  his  life.  The  wax-lit  drawing-room,  with  its  gay  green  car- 
pet, its  sparkling  fire,  its  pictuies,  its  wild  natural  ilowers,  its 
books,  its  piano.  Lord  Ruysland,  with  a  paper  in  his  hand, 
seated  in  his  easy  chair  and  watching  the  young  people  covertly 
from  over  it;  Lady  Cecil  at  the  piano,  the  candle-light  stream- 
ing over  her  fair  blonde  face,  r  floating  golden  hair,  her  silvery 
silk  dress,  her  rings  and  ribbons.  In  dreary  bivouacs,  in  the 
silence  and  depth  of  African  midnight,  this  picture  came  back 
as  vividly  as  he  saw  it  then.  In  desolate  desert  marches,  in  the 
fierce,  hot  din  of  battle,  it  flashed  upon  him.  Lying  delirious 
in  the  fever  of  gunshot  wounds,  in  Algerian  hospitals,  it  was  of 
this  night,  of  her  as  he  saw  her  then,  he  raved. 

She  sang  for  him  all  the  songs  he  liked  best.  He  leaned  over 
the  piano,  his  6yes  on  that  fairest  face,  his  ears  drinking  in  that 
dearest  melody,  silent,  happy.  They  rarely  found  much  to  say 
to  one  another  when  papa  was  present ;  they  had  got  past  the 
talking  stage,  and  one  word  and  two  or  three  looks  did  the 
business  now.  There  was  music,  and  silence,  and  bliss  ;  and 
at  ten  o'clock  it  was  all  over,  and  time  for  him  to  go. 

The  last  night !  She  gave  him  her  hand  shyly  and  wistfully 
at  parting,  and  went  up  to  her  room.  The  earl  gave  him  a 
friendly  clasp. 

"  To-morrow,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "  until  to-morrow, 
Redmond,  my  lad,  good-night  and  au  revoir!^ 

The  November  wind  was  howling  wildly  through  the  moon- 
light-flooded earth  and  sky.  He  did  not  see  this  cold  splendor; 
he  saw  nothing,  thought  of  nothing  now  but  lovely  Cecil  Clive. 

What  a  night  that  was — what  a  long  tossing  night  of  joy,  of 
hope,  of  fear,  of  longing.  He  did  not  despair — ^he  was  young 
and  sanguine,  and  hope  had  the  best  of  it.  He  knew  she  loved 
him  ;  had  not  looks,  smiles,  and  blushes,  a  thousand  and  one 
things  pen  and  ink  can  never  tell,  assured  him  of  it  ?  and  what 
to  an  angelic  being  like  that  was  the  dross  of  wealth,  that  it 
should  stand  between  two  devoted  hearts?  Thirty  thousand  a 
year — the  Cornishman  had  that — how  he  hated  that  Cornish- 
man  !  Well,  thirty  thousand  per  annum  is  a  good  round  sum, 
but  there  was  wealth  in  the  world  for  the  seeking,  and  the 
labors  of  Hercules  were  as  nothing  compared  to  what  he  was 


312 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


ready  to  undergo  for  her  sake.  An  O'Donnell  had  made  his 
marie  in  Spain — I»TcMahon  in  France — a  AV^ellington  in  England 
— all  Irishmen  good  and  true ;  what  they  had  done  he  would 
do.  Yes,  the  Cornishman  and  his  fortune  might  go  an  diablc. 
She  would  be  true  to  her  love  and  to  him  ;  she  would  trust  him 
and  wait. 

Next  morning,  lest  he  should  be  tempted  to  break  his  prom- 
ise, and  his  feet,  in  spite  of  him,  take  him  to  the  cottage,  he 
mounted  Kathleen  and  went  galloping  over  the  hills  and  far 
away  with  the  first  peep  of  sunrise.  The  afternoon  v  as  far 
advanced  when  he  returned ;  the  last  slanting  rays  of  the 
autumn  sunset  were  streaming  ruby  and  orange  ever  the  smil- 
ing moors  as  he  knocked  at  the  cottage  door. 

It  was  opened  by  grave,  gentlemanly  Mr.  Gregory.  Mr. 
Gregory  in  hat  and  greatcoat,  and  everywhere  litter,  and 
dust,  and  confusion.  Carpets  taken  up,  pictures  taken  down, 
packing  cases  everywhere — an  exodus  evidently. 

He  turned  pale  with  sudden  terror.  What  did  it  mean  ? 
Where  was  she  ?  His  heart  was  throbbing  so  fast,  it  seemed 
to  stop  his  very  breath. 

"  VVhere  is  Lord  Ruysland  ?  "  He  turned  almost  savagely 
upon  Gregory,  with  pale  face  and  excited  eyes,  but  all  the  wild 
Irishmen  from  Derry  to  Connaught  were  not  going  to  upset  the 
eo'ianimity  of  a  well-trained  English  valet. 

"  Gone,  Mr.  Redmond,  sir — a  sudding  summons,  I  believe 
it  v/as.  His  lordship  left  about  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  sir 
— Lady  Cecil  halso.  Which  there  is  a  note  for  you,  Mr.  Red- 
mond, sir,  which  no  doubt  hexplains.  Wait  one  moment,  hij 
you  please,  and  I'll  fetch  it." 

lie  never  spoke  a  word.  He  leaned  against  the  door-post, 
feeling  sick  and  giddy,  all  things  seeming  in  a  mist.  Mr. 
Gregory  returned,  the  note  in  his  hand,  a  look  of  mingled 
amusement  and  pity  struggling  with  the  national  and  pro- 
fessional gravity  of  a  Briton  and  a  valet.  Did  he  suspect  the 
truth  ?  Most  likely — servants  know  everything.  He  placed  it 
in  his  hand  ;  the  young  man  went  forward  a  pace  or  two,  and 
the  white  door  shut  very  quietly  and  decidedly  behind  him. 
He  tore  it  open  ;  it  contained  an  inclosure.  The  earl  had 
very  little  to  say — half  a  dozen  hues  held  Redmond  O'Donneil's 
sentence  of  doom. 

"  My  Dear  Boy  : — I  spoke  to  Cecil  after  you  left.  It  is  as  I  feared— 
you  have  deceived  yourself.  Her  promise  binds  her  ;  she  has  no  wish  nor 
inclination  to  break  it.     And  she  had  no  idea  of  the  state  oi your  feelings. 


AN  IRISH  IDYL. 


313 


lad  made  his 
)n  in  England 
ne  he  would 
go  an  diablc. 
mid  trust  him 

;ak  his  proni- 
e  cottage,  he 
hills  and  far 
loon  '.-  as  far 
rays  of  the 
ver  the  smil- 

regory.  Mr. 
e  litter,  and 
taken  down, 

id  it  mean  ? 
it,  it  seemed 

lost  savagely 
t  all  the  wild 
to  upset  the 

is,  I  believe 
morning,  sir 
lu,  Mr.  Red- 
moment,  hif 

le  door-post, 
mist.  Mr. 
of  mingled 

.1  and  pro- 
suspect  the 

He  placed  it 
or  two,  and 

behind  him. 

'he  earl  had 

O'Donneil's 

s  as  I  feared — 
as  no  wish  nor 
your  feelings. 


She  joins  with  me  in  tliinking  it  best  for  all  parties  slie  should  go  at  once — 
another  meeting  could  be  but  emliarrassing  to  both.  Witli  real  regrets, 
and  best  wishes  for  your  future,  1  am,  my  dear  boy,  sincerely  yours, 

"  RUYSLAND." 

The  inclosed  was  in  the  slim,  Italian  tracery  of  Lady  Cecil 
— strangely  cold  and  heartless  words. 

**  Mm  Ami: — I  am  inexpressibly  distressed.  Papa  has  told  me  all. 
"What  he  said  to  youi^  true.  My  promise  is  given  and  must  be  kept.  It 
is  best  that  I  should  go.  Fa;ewell  I  My  eternal  gratitude  and  friend- 
ship  are  yours.  Cecil." 

Only  that — so  ccld,  so  hollow,  so  heartless,  so  false !  The 
golden  sunshine,  the  green  lime-trees,  the  violet  heath  turned 
black  for  an  instant  before  his  eyes.  Then  he  crumpled  the 
letters  in  his  hand  and  walked  away. 

Mr.  Gregory  was  v;atching  from  the  window.  Mr.  Gregory 
saw  him  stagger  like  a  drunken  man  as  he  walked,  and,  some 
twenty  yards  from  the  cottage,  fling  himself  downward  on  the 
waving  heath,  and  lie  there  like  a  stone.  Mr.  Gregory's  mas- 
culine sympathies  weie  touched. 

"  Pore  young  chap,''  he  soliloquized.  **  Master's  been  and 
given  him  the  slip.  He's  fell  in  love  with  her  ladyship,  and 
this  'ere's  the  hupshot.  Sarves  him  r'ght,  of  coorse — poor  as  a 
church  mouse — still  he's  a  nice  young  fellar,  and  I  quite  pities 
him.  I  remember 'ow  I  felt  myself  when' Arrict  Lelachur  long 
ago  jilted  w^." 

He  la-'  there  for  hours.  The  sun  had  set,  the  night  with  its 
stars  and  winds,  had  come,  when  he  lifted  his  head  off  his  arm, 
and  Mr.  Gregory  and  the  packing  cases  were  miles  away.  His 
haggard  eyes  fell  on  the  notes  he  still  held,  and  with  a  fierce 
imprecation  he  tore  them  into  atoms  and  scattered  them  far 
and  wide. 

"  And  so  shall  I  tear  her — false,  heartless,  mocking  jilt — out 
of  my  life.  Oh,  God  !  to  think  that  every  smile,  every  word, 
every  look  was  mockery  and  deceit — that  she  was  fooling  me 
from  the  first,  and  laughing  at  my  presumptuous  folly,  while  I 
thought  her  an  angel.  And  he — while  I  live  I'll  never  trust 
man  or  woman  again  !  " 

Are  we  not  all  unconsciously  theatrical  in  the  supreme  hours 
of  our  lives.     He  was  now,  although  there  was  a  heart-sob  in 
every  word.     And  with  them  the  boy's  heart  went  out  from 
Redmond  O'Donnell,  and  never  came  back  again. 
14 


314 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING. 


CHAPTER  XL 


ITS    ENGLISH    READING. 


made. 


ADY  CECIL  then  was  heartless — you  say,  a  flirt  a 
deceitful  flirt,  from  first  to  last — luring  with  innocent 
eyes  and  soft,  childish  smile,  even  at  sixteen,  only  to 
fling  her  victim  away  the  moment  her  conquest  was 

Wait. 


She  had  bidden  Redmond  good  night.  There  'vas  a  tender, 
tremulous  happiness  in  the  soft  ha/el  eyes  that  .matched  him 
out  of  sight,  a  faint  half-smile  on  the  rosy,  parted  lips.  She 
scarcely  knew  what  her  new  sky-bliss  meant ;  she  never  thought 
of  falling  in  love — was  she  not  to  marry  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna? 
— only  she  knew  she  had  never,  never  been  half  so  happy  be- 
fore in  all  her  life,  and  that  Ireland  was  fairer  and  lovelier  than 
the  "Islands  of  the  Blessed"  themselves. 

"  Good-night,  papa,"  she  said,  taking  her  candle  and  turning 
to  go. 

"  Oh  ! — wait  a  moment,  Queenie,  will  you  ? "  her  father 
said,  somewhat  hurriedly  ;  "  I  want  you  to  do  a  little  copying 
for  me  before  you  go  to  bed." 

"  Co])ying  ?  "  She  sat  down  her  candle  and  looked  at  him 
in  wonder.  He  did  not  ;  boose  to  meet  those  large,  sur[)rised 
brown  eyes. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  Don't  look  alarmed  ;  only  a  line  or  two. 
Here  it  is.     Copy  it  off,  word  for  word,  as  I  dictate." 

"  Write  '  Mon  Ami:  " 

She  wrote  it. 

"  /  am  inexpressibly  distressed.  Papa  has  told  me  all. 
What  he  has  said  to  you  is  true.  My  promise  is  given  and 
must  be  kept.  It  is  best  that  I  should  go."  Here  Lady  Cecil 
came  to  a  sudden,  alarmed  stop,  and  looked  up  with  a  greatly 
disturbed  face.  "  Go,  papa,"  she  sard  ;  "  what  does  all  this 
mean  ?  " 

"  Be  kind  enough  to  write  on,  and  never  mind  asking  ques- 
tions," her  father  retorted,  impatiently ;  "  '  best  that  I  should 
go.'  You  have  that?  Go  on  then.  *■  Farewell  I  My  eternal 
gratiUide  and  friendship  are  yours:  Now  sign  it  *  Cecil: 
That  will  do.  Thanks,  my  dear.  What  a  very  pretty  hand 
you  write,  by  the  way." 

"  Papa,"  his  daughter  began,  still  with  that  disturbed  face, 


;  \- 


rl 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING. 


315 


y,  a  flirt  a 
th  innocent 
een,  only  to 
3n quest  was 

as  a  tender, 
atciied  him 
1  lips.  She 
ever  thought 
Tregenna  ? 
o  happy  be- 
ovelier  than 

and  turning 

I'  her  father 
Ittle  copying 

)ked  at  him 
;e,  surprised 

line  or  two. 


fold  me  all. 
•  given  and 
Lady  Cecil 
ith  a  greatly 
3es  all    this 

isking  ques- 
at  I  should 
My  eternal 
1  it  'Cecil' 
,)retty  hand 

urbed  face, 


"whom  is  this  written  for ?     What  does  it  mean?    I   don't 
understand." 

*'  Don't  you  ?  Please  don't  ask  too  many  questions — 
curiosity  has  ever  been  the  bane  of  your  sex.  Remember  Eve 
and  Lot's  wife,  and  be  warned.  Perhaps  I  want  your  auto- 
graph. Apropos  of  nothing,"  he  was  very  busily  folding  the 
note  now.  "  Th6r6se  will  wake  you  early  to-morrow  morning. 
We  start  immediately  after  breakfast  for  Enniskillen." 

"  Enniskillen  ! "  She  said  it  with  a  sort  of  gasp.  "  Papa, 
are  we — going  away  ?  " 

He  laid  down  the  letter,  and  looked  her  full,  keenly,  steadily 
in  the  face.  Her  eyes  shifted  and  fell  under  that  pitiless 
scrutiny. 

"  And  if  we  are,  Queenie — what  then  ?  If  I  had  said  we 
were  going  to  the  antipodes  you  would  hardly  look  more  aghast. 
Your  attachment  to — ah,  Torryglen,  of  course — must  be  very 
strong,  my  dear,  since  the  thought  of  leaving  it  affects  you 
thus." 

She  shrank  away  from  his  sneer  as  though  he  had  struck  her. 
Her  sensitive  lips  quivered,  her  face  flushed.  Again  she  took 
her  candle  and  turned  to  go. 

"Good-night,  jiapa."  Her  voice  sounded  husky,  and  the 
earl  watched  the  slight,  frai^ile  figure  ascending  the  stairs,  with 
compressed  lips  and  knitted  brows. 

"  Not  one  second  too  soon,"  he  thought.  "Another  week 
and  the  mischief  would  have  been  irrevocably  done.  Given 
a  lonely  country  house,  and  two  moderately  well-looking  peo- 
ple, thrown  constantly  into  proj^inquity,  a  love  affair  invariably 
follows.  My  young  friend  O'Donnell,  I  thank  you  for  speak- 
ing in  the  nick  of  time.  You  have  a  pride  that  bears  no  pro- 
portion to  your  jnu'se  or  prospects,  and  I  think  those  two 
polite  little  notes  will  effectually  wind  up  your  business." 

I^ady  Cecil  slept  very  little  that  night — a  panic  had  seized 
her.  Going  away !  did  he  know  ?  would  she  see  him  to  say 
good-by  before  she  left  ?  would  they  ever  meet  again  ?  And 
that  note — what  did  that  cold,  formal  note  mean  ?  Whom  was  it 
for?  Her  cheeks  were  quite  white,  her  eyes  heavy,  her  stej) 
slow,  her  tones  languid,  when  she  descended  to  breakfast.  She 
was  already  in  her  riding-habit,  and  the  horses  were  saddled  and 
waiting.  During  breakfast  her  eyes  kept  turning  to  the  door 
and  windows — up  the  valley  road  leading  to  the  O'Donnell's' 
ruined  keep.  Would  he  come?  The  earl  saw  and  smiled 
grimly  to  himself. 


!    '.l| 


316 


ITS  ENGLISH  READTNG. 


M 


1 


I'll 


'i 


r  \      f  5 


I 


M       3 


"No,  my  dear,"  he  said,  inwardly.  "You  strain  your  pretty 
brown  eyes  for  nothing — he  will  not  come.  A  hand;;onie  lad 
and  a  brave,  but  you  have  looked  your  last  upon  him." 

They  arose  from  breakfast — the  hour  of  departure  had  come. 
Then  out  of  sheer  desperation  Lady  Cecil  gathered  courage 
and  spoke  with  a  great  gulp  : 

"  Papa — does — does  Mr.  Donnell  know  we — "  She  stopped, 
unable  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"Mr.  O'Donnell,"  with  bland  urbanity,  "well,  I'm  not  quite 
positive  whether  I  mentioned  to  him  yesterday  our  departure 
or  not.  I  shall  leave  him  a  note,  however,  of  thanks  and  fare- 
well. Of  course  it  wasn't  necessary  to  tell  him,  my  dear — a 
very  fine  fellow  indeed,  in  his  sphere,  and  much  superior  to 
the  rest  of  the  peasantry — a  little  prasumptuous,  though,  I 
fancy  of  late.  Come,  Cecil — the  horses  wait,  and  *  time  is  on 
the  wing.' " 

What  could  she  say  ? — what  could  she  do  ?  There  was  pas- 
sionate rebellion  at  her  heart — pain,  love,  regret,  remorse. 
Oh,  what  would  he  think  ?  how  basely  ungrateful  she  would 
appear  in  his  e^  es.  How  unkind — how  cruel  of  papa,  not  to 
have  spoken  last  night  before  he  left,  and  let  them  say  good-by, 
at  least.  She  could  hardly  see  the  familiar  landscape  for  the 
passionate  tears  that  filled  her  eyes.  Here  was  the  river — only 
a  placid  stream  now,  where  he  had  so  heroically  risked  his  life 
to  save  hers,  yonder  the  steep,  black  cliff  up  which  he  had 
scrambled,  at  the  risk  of  his  neck,  to  gather  a  cluster  of  holly 
she  had  longed  for.  There  were  the  grim,  rugged,  lonely 
towers  and  buttresses  of  the  once  grand  old  Irish  castle,  there 
the  spot  where  she  had  sat  by  his  side  hundreds  of  times 
sketching  the  ruins.  And  now  they  were  parting  without  one 
word  of  farewell — parting  forever  ! 

They  rode  on ;  the  tower  was  reached.  All  the  way  she 
had  scarcely  spoken  one  word — all  the  way  she  had  been 
watching,  watching  vainly  for  him.  They  dined  at  Ballynahag- 
gart,  and  started  in  the  afternoon  for  Enniskillen.  They  made 
no  stay — only  that  one  night ;  in  two  days  they  were  in 
London. 

They  remained  a  week  in  the  metropolis,  at  the  residence  of 
a  friend.  The  earl  returning  home  to  dinner  one  evening, 
sought  out  his  daughter,  with  an  interesting  item  of  news.  In 
Regent  Street  that  day  he  had  come  suddenly  upon  whom  did 
she  think? — their  young  Irish  friend,  Redmond  O'Donnell. 

She  had  been  sitting  at  the  window  looking  out  at  the  twilit 


J.. 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING. 


317 


our  pretty 
^;ome  lad 


lad  come, 
couraffe 

stop[)ed, 

not  quite 
departure 

and  flire- 
dear — a 
perior  to 
though,  I 
ime  is  on 

was  pas- 
reniorsc. 
he  would 
)a,  not  to 
good-by, 
)e  for  the 
vex — only 
2d  his  life 
1  he  had 
•  of  holly 
d,   lonely 
tie,  there 
of  times 
hout  one 

way  she 

ad    been 

llynahag- 

ey  made 

were   in 

dence  of 
evening, 
;ws.     ]  n 
hom  did 
nell. 
he  twilit 


% 


street.  At  the  sound  of  that  name  she  turned  suddeiily.  How 
wan  and  thin  she  had  grown  in  a  week — how  dull  the  bright 
brown  eyes.  Now  a  sudden  light  leaped  into  them — a  swift, 
hot  Hush  of  joy  swept  over  her  face. 

"  Papa  I  Redmond  !     You  saw  him  !  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  Lord  Ruysland  said,  carelessly,  "  and  look- 
ing very  well,  too.  I  asked  him  to  come  here — said  you  would 
be  glad  to  see  him — very  sorry  at  having  to  leave  Ireland 
without  an  opportunity  of  saying  good-by,  and  all  that — but  he 
declined." 

"  He — declined  I "  The  pale  lips  could  but  just  shape  the 
words. 

"Yes,  and  rather  discourteously,  too.  Said  he  did  not  mean 
to  stay  in  London  over  a  week,  and  that  his  time  would  be 
fully  occupied.  He  did  not  even  send  you  a  message  ;  he 
seemed  lilled-ivith  boyish  elation  over  his  own  affairs.  He  is 
going  out  to  Algiers,  he  tells  me,  to  seek  active  service  under 
the  r'rench  flag.  These  hot-headed  liishmen  are  always  '  spoil- 
ing for  a  fight.'  He  seemed  in  great  spirits,  and  quite  wild  to 
be  off.  But  he  might  have  found  time  to  call;  though,  all  the 
same,  I  think,  or  even  send  you  a  message.  It's  'out  of  sight, 
out  of  mind,'  with  these  hare-brained  sort  of  people,  though, 
always.  Go  to  the  dickens  to  do  any  one  a  service,  and  for- 
get them  for  good  the  instant  they  are  out  of  their  sight." 

Dead  silence  answered  him.  He  tried  to  see  his  daughter's 
face,  but  it  was  averted,  and  the  gathering  twilight  hid  it.  He 
need  not  have  feared.  She  had  all  an  English  girl's  "  pluck." 
Her  eyes  were  flashing  now,  one  little  hand  clenched  hard,  her 
teeth  set.  She  had  liked  him  so  much — so  much,  she  had  not 
known  one  happy  hour  since  they  had  left  Ulster,  for  thinking 
of  him  ;  and  now  he  was  in  London,  and  refused  to  come  to  see 
her — talked  to  her  father,  and  would  not  even  send  his  remem- 
brances— on  the  eve  of  departure  forever,  it  might  be,  and  could 
find  no  time  to  call  and  say  good-by.  She  had  thought  of  him 
by  day  and  dreamed  of  him  by  night,  and  he  returned  it — 
like  this ! 

"  I'll  never  think  of  him  again — never  I  "  she  said,  under  her 
breath.  "I  am  glad,  glad,  glad  he  does  not  dream  bow  much 
I — I  like  him  I  " — a  great  sob  here.  "I'll  never  thii,k  of  him 
again,  if  I  can." 

If  she  could !  One  thing  is  certain,  she  never  uttered  his 
name  from  that  hour,  and  slowly  the  sparkle  came  back  to  her 
eyes,  the  old  joyous  ring  to  her  laugh,  and  La  Rcine  Blanche 


fi 


ill'11 


318 


ITS  ENGL/ SI/  READING. 


was  her  own  bright,  glad  self  once  more.  "  Love's  young 
dream"  had  come  and  gone,  had  been  born,  and  died  a  natuial 
death,  and  was  decently  buried  out  of  sii^ht.  Jkit  this  also  is 
certain — no  second  dream  ever  came  to  replace  it.  (lood 
men  and  true  bowed  dov/n  and  fell  before  I,ord  Rnysland's 
handsome,  dark-eyed  daughter  ;  names,  titles,  hearts,  fortunes, 
and  coronets  were  laid  at  her  feet,  to  be  rejected.  The  world 
could  not  understand.  ^Vhat  did  she  mean  ?  What  did  she 
expect  ?  She  felt  a  sort  of  weary  wonder,  herself.  Why  coukl 
she  not  return  any  of  this  love  so  freely  lavished  upon  her  ? 
Men  had  asked  her  to  be  their  wife  whose  affection  and  name 
would  have  done  honor  to  any  woman,  but  she  rejected  them  all. 
Many  of  them  touched  her  pity  and  her  pride — not  one  her 
heart.  Her  father  looked  on  patiently,  quite  resigned.  None 
of  these  admirers  were  richer  than  his  favorite.  Sit  Arthur  'I're- 
genna.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  when  the  time  can^e,  she  should 
marry. 

In  all  these  years  of  conquest,  and  triumph,  and  ]>leasure  she 
had  heard  nothing  of  or  from  her  Irish  hero.  Long  before,  per- 
haps, his  grave  might  have  been  made  out  yonder  under  the  burn- 
. jng  Arab  sky;  dead  or  alive,  at  least  he  was  lost  forever  to  her. 
She  could  even  smile  now  as  she  looked  back  upon  that  pretty, 
poetic,  foolish  idyl  of  her  first  youth— smile  to  think  what  a 
hero  he  had  been  in  her  eyes — how  willingly  she  would  have 
given  *'  all  for  love,  and  thought  the  world  well  lost " — smile  to 
think  what  simpletons  love-sick  girls  of  sixteen  are. 

•  •••••••a 

And  now  six  years  were  past,  and  he  stood  before  her.  Stood 
before  her  changed  greatly,  and  yet  the  same.  It  was  a  su- 
perbly-soldierly figure — tall,  stalwart,  erect,  strong  but  not  stout 
— muscular,  yet  graceful.  The  fresh,  beardless  face  of  the  boy 
she  remembered  she  saw  no  longer  ;  the  face  of  the  man  was 
darkly  bronzed  by  the  burning  Algerian  sun  ;  a  most  becoming, 
most  desirable  auburn  beard  and  mustache  altered  the  whole 
expression  of  the  lower  part.  It  had  a  stern,  something  of  a 
tired  look,  the  lips  a  cynical  curve,  the  blue  eyes  a  keen,  hard 
light,  very  different  from  their  old  honest  simplicity  and  frank- 
ness. No ;  this  bronzed,  bearded,  Algerian  chasseur  was  not 
the  Redmond  O'Donnell  she  had  known  and  liked  so  well,  any 
more  than  she  was  the  blushing,  tender  heart  of  six  years  ago. 

She  stood  for  an  instant  looking  at  him.  The  surprise  of 
seeing  him  here^  as  suddenly  as  though  he  had  risen  up  out  of 
the  earth,  almost  took  her  breath  away,     liut  for  the   Lady 


^    u^' 


ITS  J.NaLlSII  READING. 


319 


s  young 

I  iiatiiial 

IS  also  i.s 

iiyshiiul's 

fortunes, 

lie  world 

t  (lid  she 

liy  coukl 

on  her  ? 

id  name 

them  all. 

one  her 

!.     None 

thnr  'I're- 

le  should 

isure  she 
fore,  per- 
the  burn- 
-T  to  her. 
It  pretty, 
c  what  a 
uld  have 
-smile  to 


.  Stood 
as  a  su- 
lot  stout 
the  boy 
nan  was 
coming, 
e  whole 
ing  of  a 
2X\,  hard 
d  frank- 
was  not 


^'ell, 


any 


rs  ago. 
prise  of 
)  out  of 
t   Lady 


. 


■? 


Cecil  Clive  to  lose  lier  self-possession  long  was  not  possible.  A 
second  later,  and  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  smile 
and  glanced  as  bright,  as  frank,  as  pleasant  as  any  that  had 
nver  been  given  him  by  the  T.ady  Cecil  of 'J'orryglen. 

"It  is — it  is  Captain  O'Donnell.  And  after  all  those  years  1 
And  so  changed  by  time,  and  whiskers,  and  Algerian  campaign- 
ing, that  I  may  well  be  pardoned  for  doubting  his  identity." 

lie  bowed  with  a  smile  over  the  little  hand  a  brief  slant, 
then  resigned  it. 

"  Changed,  no  doubt — and  not  for  the  better ;  grown  old, 
and  gray,  and  grim.  And  you,  too,  have  changed,  Lady  Cecil 
— it  might  seem  like  flattery  if  I  told  you  how  greatly.  And  yet 
I  think  I  should  have  known  you  anywhere." 

"Quecnie  has  grown  tall,  and  doesn't  blush  quite  so  often  as 
she  used  at  Torryglen,"  her  father  interposed.  "You  have  had 
many  hair-breadth  escapes  by  flood  and  field  since  we  saw  you 
last,  but  I  don't  think  you  ever  had  a  narrower  one  than  that 
evening  when  we  saw  you  first.  Oh,  well — perhaps  excepting 
yesterday  at  the  picnic." 

Captain  O'Donnell  laughed — the  old,  pleasant,  mellow  laugh 
of  long  ago — and  showed  very  white  teeth  behind  his  big 
troopePs  mustache, 

"  Yes,  the  risk  was  imminent  yesterday ;  my  nerves  have 
hardly  yet  recovered  the  shock  of  that — temi)est  in  a  teapot. 
I  am  glad  to  find  the  lady  I  rescued  so  heroically  from  that 
twojienny-halfpenny  squall  is  none  the  worse  for  her  wetting." 

*'  Here  she  comes  to  answer  for  herself,"  returned  thx.  '^arl, 
as  his  niece  came  sailing  up  on  the  arm  of  Major  Frankland. 
"  Major  Frankland,  behold  the  preserver  of  your  life  from  the 
hurricane  yesterday.  Lady  Dangerfield  has  already  thanked 
him.     Major  Frankland,  my  friend  Captain  O'Donnell." 

Major  Frankland  bowed,  but  he  also  frowned  and  pulled  his 
whisker.  Why  need  the  fellow  be  so  confoundedly  good-look- 
ing, and  why  need  women  make  such  a  howling  over  a  trifle  ? 
He  hadn't  even  risked  a  wet  jacket  for  Lady  Dangerfield — he  had 
risked  nothing,  in  fact ;  and  here  she  was  for  the  second  time 
pouring  forth  her  gratitude  with  an  effusion  and  volubility  sicken- 
ing to  hear.  Captain  O'Donnell  bore  it  all  like  the  hero  he  was, 
and  stood  with  his  "  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him,"  perfectly 
cool,  perfectly  easy,  perfectly  self-possessed. 

"  So  you  were  the  knight  to  the  rescue,  Captain  O'D.onnell  ?  " 
Lady  Cecil  said,  with  a  laugh  that  had  a  shadow  of  her  father's 
scarcasm  in  it.     "  I  might  have  known  it  if  I  had  known  you 


If  ■  I 


320 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING. 


i  \ 


w 


?       ! 


were  in  the  neighborliood  at  all.  You  have  an  amiable  mania 
for  saving  people's  lives.  It  rcmiiuls  me  of  declining  a  veib. 
First  person  singular,  he  saves  my  life,  second  i)erson  singular 
he  saves  _>w/r  life,  third  person  singular  he  saves ///V  life — mean- 
ing Sir  Arthur  over  yonder.  Really,  if  the  tournament  and  tilt- 
ing days  were  not  over  you  might  ride  forth  a  veritable  knight- 
errant  with  visor  closed,  and  corselet  clasped,  and  lance  in  rest, 
to  the  rescue  of  fair  maidens  and  noble  dames  in  danger.  lUit 
all  (his  while,  jxipa,  joii  do  not  tell  us  what  good  fortune  has 
sent  Captain  O'Donnell  to  Sussex,  of  all  ])laces  in  the  world." 

**  And  why  not  to  Sussex,  T^ady  Cecil  ?  One  could  hardly 
select  a  fairer  county  to  ruralize  in.  However,  the  choice  on 
this  occasion  was  not  mine,  but  my  sister's.  She  wished  to 
come — why,  IL'aven  knows — I  never  presume  to  ask  the  rea- 
son of  a  lady's  whim.  She  wished  to  come  to  Sussex,  to  Castle- 
ford,  and — here  we  are." 

"Your  sister?"  Lady  Cecil  said,  interested.  *'Yes,  Mr. 
Wyatt  told  me  in  town  she  was  with  you ;  in  ill  health,  too,  I 
am  almost  afraid  he  said." 

"In  very  ill  health,"  the  chasseur  answered,  gravely ;  "and 
I  can  set  her  anxiety  to  visit  this  piace  down  to  nothing  but  an 
invalid's  meaningless  whim.  My  great  hope  is  that  its  gratifi- 
cation may  do  her  good." 

"Your  sister  here,  and  sick,  Captain  O'Donnell?"  I.ady 
Dangerfield  cut  in,  "and  we  not  know  it?  Abominable  I 
Wheie  are  you  staying  ? " 

••  In  very  pleasant  quarters,"  with  a  smile  at  her  brusqtieric  ; 
"at  the  Silver  Rose." 

"  Very  pleasant  for  an  Algerian  soldier,  perhaps — not  so 
pleasant  for  an  invalid  lady.  Your  sister  comes  here.  Cap- 
tain O'Donnell — oh,  I  insist  upon  it — and  shall  make  Scars- 
wood  her  home  during  her  stay.  You  too — Sir  Peter  and  I 
will  be  most  happy ;  indeed  we  shall  take  no  excuse." 

But  Captain  O'Donnell  only  listened  and  smiled  that  inexora- 
ble smile  of  his. 

"  Thanks  very  much  ;  you  are  most  kind  ;  but  of  course,  it 
is  quite  impossible." 

"  No  one  ever  says  impossible  to  me,  sir,"  cries  my  lady,  im- 
perially. "  Miss  O'Donnell — is  she  Miss  O'Donnell,  by  the  bye? 
She  is.  Very  well,  then,  Lady  Cecil  and  I  will  call  upon 
Miss  O'Donnell  to-morrow  at  the  Silver  Rose,  and  fetch  her 
back  with  us  here — that's  decided." 

"Gad!  my  dear,"  interrupted  Lord  Ruysland,  "if  you  can 


c  mama 

a  veil). 

singular 

-  iiican- 

aiul  lilt- 

-'  kni<^^ht- 

i  in  rest, 

<.T.        Illlt 

line  has 
world." 
1  liardly 
oice  on 
ishcd  to 
the  rea- 
>  Casllc- 

^CR,  Mr. 
h,  too,  I 


Y;  "and 
but  an 
gratifi- 


'"  Lady 
iiinable ! 

^qticrie  ; 

-not  so 
e,  Cap- 
3  Scars- 
r  and  I 

nexora- 

)urse,  it 

idy,  im- 
le  bye  ? 
1  upon 
ch  her 

ou  can 


0 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING, 


32i 


prevail  upon  O'Donnell  to  say  yes  when  O'Doiinell  has  made 
up  his  mind  to  say  no,  then  you  arc  a  greater  (Hploinat  than  I 
ever  gave  you  credit  for.  'I'on  my  hfe  you  should  iiave  seen 
and  heard  the  trouble  /had  to  induce  him  to  honor  Scarswood 
with  his  presence  even  for  a  few  moments  to-night.  Said  it 
wasn't  worth  while,  you  know — intended  to  leave  in  a  week  or 
so — didn't  want  to  put  in  an  a[)pearance  at  all,  by  (leorge, 
even  to  see  _)W/ again,  Queenie,  one  of  his  oldest  friends." 

"  It  is  characteristic  of  Captain  O'Donnell  to  treat  his  fiiends 
with  profound  disregard.  Not  over  flattering  to  us,  is  it, 
Ginevra?  hy  the  way,  though,  I  should  have  thought  you 
would  have  liked  to  see  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  again,  at  least. 
He  certainly  would  have  put  iiimself  to  consid«nable  incon- 
venience for  the  pleasure  of  meeting  jy?//." 

"What!"  O'Donnell  said,  his  eyes  lighting  with  real  plea- 
sure, "  Tregenna  here  !  You  are-right.  Lady  Cecil ;  I  shall  be 
glad  to  meet  him  again — the  best  fellow  ! — Ah  !  I  see  him — 
very  pleasantly  occui)ied  he  appears  to  be,  too." 

"  Flirting  with  the  governess,"  put  in  the  earl,  stroking  his 
iron-gray  mustache.  "  Miss  llerncastle  must  have  something 
to  say  for  herself,  then,  after  all  ;  she  has  succeeded  in  amusing 
Tregenna  longer  and  better  than  I  ever  saw  him  before  since 
he  came  here.  How  is  it  she  comes  to  be  among  us  to-night, 
Cinevra?  Her  first  appearance,  is  it  not? — and  zrr^  unlike 
your  usual  tactics." 

"  Queenie  would  have  it,"  Lady  Dangerfield  answered,  with 
a  shrug ;  "  she  persists  in  making  the  governess  one  of  the 
family." 

"Oh,  Queenie  would  have  it,  would  she  ?"  the  earl  respond- 
ed, thoughtfully  looking  at  his  daughter.  "  Very  considerate  of 
Queenie,  and  she  likes  to  have  the  baronet  amused — naturally. 
Captain  O'Donnell,  you  honor  Miss  Herncastle  with  a  very 
prolonged  and  inciuisitive  gaze — may  I  ask  if  you  have  fallen  a 
victim  as  well  as  Sir  Arthur  ?  " 

"  A  victim  ?  Well  no,  I  think  not.  I  am  trying  to  recollect 
where  I  have  seen  Miss  Herncastle  before." 

"  W1iat !  "  cried  Lady  Dangerfield  ;  "  you  too  ?  Oh,  this  is 
too  much.  First  Lord  Ruysland,  then  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield, 
now  Captain  O'Donnell,  all  are  transfixed  at  sight  of  my 
nursery  governess,  and  insist  that,  dead  or  alive,  they  have  met 
her  before.  Now  where  was  it  you  knew  '^er,  Mon  Capiiainei 
Surely  not  in  Algiers  ?  " 

"  Not  in  Algiers,  certainly.  Where  I  have  seen  her  before, 
U* 


M 


m 


322 


ITS  ENGL  IS//  READING, 


iL" 


*■ 


! 


v.\. ' 


% 


I  cannot  tell ;  seen  her  I  have,  that  is  jjositive — my  memory 
for  facts  and  faces  may  be  trusted.  And  hers  is  not  a  face  to 
be  seen  and  forgotten,  yet  just  now  I  cannot  place  it." 

"  Our  waltz,  1  believe.  Lady  Cecil ! "  exclaimed  a  gendeman, 
connng  uj)  and  salaaming  before  her.  It  was  Squire  Talbot,  of 
Morecambe  ;  and  Lady  Cecil,  with  a  few  last  smiling  words 
over  her  white  shoulder  to  the  chasseur,  took  his  proffered  arm 
and  moved  away. 

"  How  strange,"  she  was  thinking,  "  that  Captain  O'Donnell 
should  have  known  her  too.  Really,  Miss  Herncastle  is  a  most 
mysterious  personage.  Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  she  attracts 
and  fascinates  me  so?  It  isn't  that  I  like  her — I  don't;  I 
doubt,  I  distrust  her.  Yet  I  like  to  look  at  her,  to  hear  her  talk, 
to  wonder  about  her.  How  rapt  Sir  Arthur  looks  !  /never 
succeeded  in  enchaining  him  like  that.  Four  hours  ago  he  was 
on  the  brink  of  asking  me  to  be  his  wife — now  he  looks  as 
though  there  were  not  another  woman  in  the  scheme  of  the  uni- 
verse than  Helen  Herncastle.  Am  I  jealous,  I  wonder? — do 
I  really  want  to  marry  him  after  all  ?  Am  I  the  coquette  they 
call  me  ?  " 

She  smiled  bitterly  as  she  looked  toward  them.  Squire  Tal- 
bot caught  that  look  and  followed  it. 

"Eh  !  Quite  a  flirtation  going  on  there,  certainly."  He 
was  rather  obtuse — the  squire.  "  Didn't  think  Sir  Arthur  was 
much  of  a  lady's  man,  but  gad  !  to-night  he  seems — oh,  good 
Heaven !" 

He  stopped  short — he  stared  aghast.  Miss  Herncastle  had 
lifted  her  stately  head  from  the  book  of  engravings  and  turned 
her  face  full  toward  them.  And  for  the  first  time  Squire  Tal- 
bot saw  her. 

Lady  Cecil  looked  at  him  and  laughed  outright.  Amaze, 
consternation,  horror,  were  actually  pictured  upon  his  face. 

"  What !  another  !  Upon  my  word  the  plot  thickens  rapidly. 
You,  too,  have  known  Miss  Herncastle  then  in  some  other 
and  better  world?  Is  she  destined  to  strike  every  gentleman 
she  meets  in  this  sensational  manner?" 

"  Miss — what  did  you  call  her.  Lady  Cecil?     Good  Ged  !  I 
never  saw  such  a  resemblance.     Upon  my  sacred  honor,  Lady 
^  Cecil,  I  thought  it  was  a  ghost ! " 

"  Of  course — that's  tlie  formula — they  all  say  that.  Whose 
ghost  do  you  take  her  for,  S(iuire  Talbot?  " 

"  Katherine  Dangerfield,  of  course — i)oor  Kathie.  It  is — 
Good  Ged  ! — it  is  as  like  her  as — "  the  squire  pulled  out  his 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING. 


323 


'  memory 
a  face  to 

entleman, 
Talbot,  of 
ng  words 
fered  arm 

)'Donnell 
is  a  most 
:  attracts 
don't;  I 
r  her  talk, 
/never 
go  he  was 
e looks  as 
)f  the  uni- 
idcr  ? — do 
uette  they 

111  ire  Tal- 

ily."  He 
Lrthur  was 
-oh,  good 

castle  had 
nd  turned 
liiire  Tal- 

Amaze, 
>  face, 
s  rapidly, 
me  other 
entleman 

i  Ged  !  I 
lor,  Lady 

Whose 

It  is— 
d  out  his 


cambric  and  wiped  his  flushed  and  excited  face.  "  I  give  you 
my  word,  I  never  saw  such  a  resemblance.  Except  that  this 
lady  has  darker  hair,  and  yes — yes,  I  think — and  is  taller  and 
more,  womanly — she  is — "  again  the  squire  paused,  his  con- 
sternation only  permitting  disconnected  sentences.  "  I  never 
saw  anything  like  it — nevei,  I  give  you  my  honor.  What  does 
Sir  Peter  say  ?  He  must  have  noticed  it,  and  gad,  it  can't  be 
pleasant  for  /«>«." 

"  Sir  Peter  has  been  in  a  collapsed  and  horrified  state  ever 
since  she  entered  Scarswood.  Oh,  yes !  he  sees  it — not  a 
doubt  of  that.  Miss  Herncastle  is  like  one  of  Wilkie  Collins' 
novels — the  interest  intensifies  steadily  to  the  end — the  *  Man 
in  the  Iron  Mask  '  was  plain  reading  compared  to  her.  Really, 
if  she  keeps  frightening  people  in  this  way,  I  greatly  fear  Lady 
Dangerfield  must  send  her  away.  A  living  ghost  can't  be  a 
pleasant  instructress  of  youth." 

"She  does  not  seem  to  frighten  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  at 
least,"  said  Squire  Talbot,  beginning  to  recover  from  his  sudden 
shock.  "  And  so  she  is  only  the  governess.  I  never  saw  such 
a  resemblance — never  in  all  my  life.  What  would  Edith  say, 
I  wonder,  if  she  could  see  it?" 

"  Edith  ?  " 

"  My  sister,  you  know — used  to  be  Katherine  Dangerfield's 
bosom  friend  and  confidante — married  now,  you  know — De 
Vere  of  the  Plungers — and  gone  to  south  of  France  for  her 
health.  Gad !  I  don't  think  it  would  be  safe  to  let  them 
meet — she's  nervous,  Edith  is — took  Katherine's  death,  poor 
girl,  very  deeply  to  heart ;  and  if  she  came  suddenly  upon  this 
— this  fac-simile,  by  George!  of  her  friend,  I  wouldn't  answer 
for  the  consequences.  Never  saw  such  a  striking  resemblance 
in  all  my  life." 

And  then  they  whirled  away  in  their  waltz.  How  strange  ! 
how  strange  I  Lady  Cecil  kept  thinking.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  her  eyes  rarely  wandered  from  these  two  at  the  table. 
No  one  interrupted  them.  It  was  a  most  pronounced  flirta- 
tion. Even  Captain  O'Donnell  declined  the  request  of  his 
hostess  and  the  earl  that  he  should  go  up  and  speak  to  his 
friend." 

"By  no  means,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  ;  "that  can  wait.  It 
would  be  a  pity  to  interrupt  him — he  seems  so  well  amused." 

It  was  Miss  Herncastle  herself  who  broke  up  the  tete-cbtcte. 
Sir  Arthur  had  become  so  interested,  so  absorbed  in  his  com- 
panion and  the  pictures,  as  to  quite  forget   the  flight  of  time. 


11  •' 


I 


11    I 

II  ^- 


324 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING, 


Women  never  forget  the  proprieties,  Ics  convenances,  in  any 
situation  of  life.  She  arose,  Lady  Cecil  still  watching  her  with 
a  curiouLly  set  and  interested  expression,  s[)oke  a  few  Inst  half- 
smiling  words,  and  hurried  away.  Like  a  man  awakening  from 
a  dream,  she  saw  Sir  Arthur  rise.  No,  Lady  Cecil,  yoii  never 
succeeded  in  holding  him  spell-bound  in  this  way,  with  all 
your  beauty,  all  your  brilliance.  Then  from  an  inner  room  she 
saw  the  tall  chasseur  make  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  ap- 
proach. She  could  even  hear  his  deep  mellow  tones,  "Tre- 
genna,  my  dear  fellow,  how  goes  it?"  Then  with  a  look  of 
real  pleasuie  lighting  up  his  grave  face,  she  saw  the  Cornish 
baronet  clasp  the  hand  of  the  Irish  soldier  of  fortune.  Was 
there  anything  in  the  sight  of  the  cordial  hand-clasp  of  those 
tu'o  men  unpleasant  to  the  sight  of  Lady  Cecil  CUve?  Over 
the  fair  face  an  irritated  flush  came,  into  the  brown,  bright  eyes 
a  sudden,  swift,  dark  anger  passed.  She  turned  away  from 
the  sight  to  her  next  partner,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  night 
danced  and  flirted  without  intermission.  Her  laugh  was  gayer, 
her  eyes  brighter,  her  cheeks  osier  than  any  there  had  ever 
seen  them  before.  Bright  at  an  times,  some  touch  of  feverish 
im])aticnce  and  anger  within  made  her  positively  drizzling 
to-night. 

The  "  festive  hours  "  drew  to  a  close  ;  the  guests  were  fast 
The  music  was  pealing  forth  its  last  gay  strains,  as 
for  the  first  moment  she  found  herself  alone.  No  touch  of 
fatigue  dimmed  the  radiance  of  that  perfect  face  ;  that  starry 
light  gave  her  eyes  the  gleam  of  dark  diamonds  ;  the  fever  rose- 
tint  was  deeper  than  ever  on  her  cheek,  when  looking  up  she 
saw  approaching  Lady  Dangerficld  on  the  arn">  of  Captain 
O'Donnell. — Sir  Arthur,  stately  and  dignified,  on  her  other 
hand.  Her  brilliant  ladyship  was  vivaciously  insisting  upon 
something,  the  chasseur  laughingly  but  resolutely  refusing. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,  Queenie  ! "  her  ladyship  impatiently 
cried.  "  What  an  inveterate  dancer  you  are  becoming.  It  was 
fatiguing  only  to  watch  you  to-night.  Perhaps  you  will  succeed 
where  I  fail.  You  and  Captain  O'Donnell  appear  to  be  old 
friends;  try  if  you  can  prevail  upon  him  and  overcome  his 
obstinacy." 

"  To  overcome  the  obstinacy  of  Captain  O'Donnell  I  know 
of  old  to  be  an  impossible  task.  But  to  please  you,  Cinevra ! 
On  what  particular  point  is  our  Chasseur  (V Afrique  obstinate 
now?" 

"  I  want  him  to  leave  the  inn  at  Castleford,  with  his  sister, 


doi)arUng 


i 


ITS  ENGLISH  READING. 


325 


in  any 

er  with 
1st  half- 
ig  from 
u  never 
kvith  all 
om  she 
and  ap- 

"  Tie- 
look  of 
J  Ornish 
AVas 
>f  those 
Over 
ht  eyes 
ay  from 
e  night 

gayer, 
ad  ever 
feverish 
lozzling 

ere  fast 
ains,  as 
3iich  of 
-t  starry 
er  rose- 
uj)  she 
l^aptain 
r  other 
g  upon 

itiently 

It  was 

ucceed 

be  old 

me  his 

I  know 
nevra ! 
istinate 


and  come  here.  The  idea  of  stopping  at  an  inn — a  lady,  too 
— preposterous  I  Sir  Peter  insists,  /  insist.  Uncle  Raoul  in- 
sists. Sir  Arthur  insists — all  in  vain.  And  I  used  to  think 
Irishmen  the  n'ost  gallant  and  yielding  of  men — could  not 
possibly  say  no  to  a  lady  if  they  tried.  I  shall  have  another 
opinion  of  Captain  O'Donnell's  countrymen  after  to-night." 

"  You  'nill  come,"  La  Reine  Blanche  said,  with  a  glance  of 
her  long,  luminous  eyes,  that  had  done  fatal  service  ere  to- 
night. Few  men  had  ever  the  moral  courage  to  say  no  to 
those  bewitching  eyes.  *'  You  will.  Our  motto  is  *  The  More 
the  Merrier.'  We  will  d(3  our  best  not  to  bore  you.  Scars- 
wood  is  a  pleasanter  place  than  the  Silver  Rose.  You  will 
come — /wishic." 

"And  nobody  ever  says  no  to  Queenie,"  Lady  Dangerfield 
gayly  added  ;  *'  her  rule  is  absolute  monarchy." 

He  looked  down  into  the  beautiful,  lau':;hing,  imperial  face, 
and  bent  low  before  her,  with  all  the  gallantry  of  an  Irishman, 
all  [h(d  d3onnaire of  a  Frenchman. 

"  I  can  believe  it,  Lady  Dangerfield.  And  that  Za  Rcine 
Blanche  may  have  the  pleasure  of  a  new  sensation,  permit  me 
to  say  it — for  once.  To  please  Lady  Cecil — what  is  there 
mortal  man  would  not  do  ?  In  this  trivial  matter  she  will, 
however,  let  me  have  my  own  obstinate  way.  If  the  Peri  had 
never  dwelt  in  Paradise,  she  would  not  have  wept  in  leaving. 
I  may  be  weak,  but  past  sad  experience  has  taught  me  wisdom. 
I  take  warning  by  the  fate  of  the  Peri." 

His  tone  was  very  gentle,  his  smile  very  pleasant,  but  his 
will  was  invincible.  The  velvet  glove  sheathed  a  hand  of  iron  ; 
this  was  not  the  Redmond  O'Donnell  she  had  known — the  im- 
petuous, yielding  lad,  to  whom  she  had  biit  to  say  "  come,"  and 
he  came — "  go,"  and  he  went.  Was  she  testing  her  own 
power  ?  If  so,  she  failed  signally.  As  he  turned  to  go  to  the 
cloak-room  she  heard  him  humming  a  tune  under  his  breath,  a 
queer,  provoking  half-smile  on  his  face.  She  caught  the  fag 
end  of  the  words  :  • 

"  For  the  bird  that  is  once  in  the  tolls,  my  dear. 
Can  never  be  caught  with  chaff." 

That  half-amused,  half-knowing  smile  was  still  on  his  mus- 
tached  lips  as  he  bade  her  a  gay  good-night,  and  was  gone. 
The  IrishTdyl  had  been  written,  and  this  was  its  English  reading. 


sister, 


326 


*'THE  BATTLE   OF  FONTENOY,'* 


CHAPTER  XII. 


"THE   BATTLE   OF   FONTENOY." 


I 


n 


1*1. 


!: 


i:| 


HE  small  parlor  of  the  Silver  Rose  looked  very  much 
to-day  as  it  had  done  this  day  six  years,  when  httle 
Mrs.  Vavasor  had  been  its  occupant.  A  trifle  dustier 
and  rustier,  darker  and  dingier,  but  the  same  ;  and  in 
one  of  its  venerable,  home-made  arm-chairs,  under  its  open 
front  windows,  sat  another  litUe  lady,  looking  with  weary  eyes, 
up  and  down  the  street.  It  was  Rose  O'Donnell — the  captain's 
sister.  She  was  a  little  creature,  <!j?>  petite  as  Mrs.  Vavasor  her- 
self, of  fairy-like,  fragile  proportions,  a  wan,  moonlight  sort  of 
face,  lit  with  large,  melancholy  eyes.  Those  somber,  blue  eyes, 
under  their  black  brows  and  lashes,  reminded  you  of  her 
brother  ;  the  ricl.,  abundant  brown  hair,  that  was  but  a  warmer 
shade  of  black,  was  also  his ;  otherwise  there  was  no  resem- 
blance. In  repose  the  expression  of  that  wan,  small  face  was 
one  of  settled  sadness ;  at  intervals,  though^  it  lit  up  into  a 
smile  of  wonderful  brightness  and  sweetness,  and  then  she  was 
more  like  her  brother  than  ever.  She  wore  gray  silk,  without 
ribbon,  or  lace,  or  jewel,  and  she  looked  like  a  little  Quakeress, 
or  a  small,  gray  kitten,  coiled  up  there  in  her  big  chair.  She 
was  quite  alone,  her  deUcate  brow  knit  in  deep  and  painful 
thought,  her  hands  clasping  and  unclasping  nervously  in  her  lap, 
her  great  eyes  fixed  on  the  passers-by,  but  evidently  not  seeing 
them. 

"  This  is  the  place."  she  said  to  herself,  in  a  sort  of  whisper ; 
"  this  is  the  town,  and  Scarswood  was  the  house.  At  last — at 
last  !  But  how  will  it  end  ?  Must  I  go  on  to  my  grave  knowing 
nothing — nothing — whether  he  be  living  or  dead,  or  am  I  to  find 
out  here?  If  I  only  dared  tell  Redmond — my  best  brother, 
my  dearest  friend — but  I  dare  not.  If  he  be  alive,  and  they 
met,  he  would  surely  kill  him." 

An  inner  door  opened,  and  her  brother,  a  straw  sombrero 
in  one  hand,  a  fishing-rod  in  ♦^he  otlier,  came  in  with  his  sounding 
trooper  tread. 

"  Rose,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  I  did  not  mention  it  at  break- 
fost,  but  I  was  absent  last  night.  I  met  an  old  acquaintance, 
and  he  insisted  upon  taking  me  with  him.  I  spent  the 
evening  at  Scarswood  Park." 


1 


''THE  BATTLE   OF  FONTENOVr 


327 


ery  much 
len  little 
e  dustier 
- ;  and  in 
its  open 
ary  eyes, 
captain's 
asor  her- 
t  sort  of 
'liie  eyes, 
II  of  her 
I  warmer 

0  resem- 
face  was 
p  into  a 

1  she  was 
,  without 
lakeress. 
lir.  She 
1  painful 

her  lap, 
)t  seeing 

ivhisper ; 
last — at 
knowing 
r  to  find 
brother, 
nd  they 

)mbrero 
3unding 

break- 
ntance, 
mt   the     • 


"  Scarswood  Park  ! "  It  was  almost  a  startled  cry,  but  he 
did  not  notice  it. 

"  Yes,  Scarswood  Park — place  some  three  or  four  miles  off — 
belonging  to  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield.  Didn't  see  Sir  Peter — saw 
my  lady,  though,  and — here  is  where  the  interest  comes  in. 
She  insists  upon  your  leaving  this  hostelry  and  becoming  her 
guest." 

"I!" 

"  Yes.  I  chanced  to  do  her  some  trifling  service  the  other 
day — absurdly  trifling  to  make  such  a  fuss  over — and  she  insists 
upon  magnifying  a  mole-hill  into  a  mountain,  saying  I  saved 
her  life  and  all  that.  She  is  really  the  most  hospitable  lady  I 
ever  met — wanted  to  insist  upon  us  both  pitching  our  tents  in 
Scarswood.  For  myself,  I  declined,  and  do  so  still,  of  course  ; 
but  for  you — I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  and  am  not  co  sure. 
This  isn't  just  the  place  of  all  places  I  should  choose  for  you  ; 
perpetual  skittles  in  a  back-yard  can't  be  agreeable  to  a  well- 
constructed  female  mind.  They  are  going  to  call  to-day,  and 
if  they  insist,  and  you  prefer  it,  why,  go  with  them,  if  yon 
will." 

"They — Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Dangerfield,  do  you  mean?" 

"  No ;  Lady  Dangerfield  and  her  cousin,  the  Lady  Cecil 
Clive.  By  the  bye,  1  neglected  to  mention  that  I  kn'ew  Lady 
Cecil  and  her  father,  Lord  Ruysland,  years  ago,  in  Ireland. 
They're  very  civil  and  all  that,  and  if  they  insist,  as  I  said,  and 
you  prefer  it — ^" 

Her  large  eyes  lit  with  an  eager  light. 

"  There  can  be  no  question  as  to  my  preference,  brother ; 
but  if  you  object  to  it  in  any  way — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  object.  I  would  just  as  soon — sooner,  indeed 
— you  went,  as  you  insist  upon  staying  in  this  place  at  all.  I 
shall  remain  here,  and  run  down  to  see  you  every  day  until  you 
have  had  enough  of  Castleford  and  Scarswood.  And  now,  an 
revoir  for  the  day — I'm  going  fishing." 

He  left  the  room  whistling,  flinging  his  sombrero  carelessly 
on  his  dark  curls,  and  throwing  his  fishing-rod  over  his  shoulder. 
His  sister  watched  his  tall  figure  out  vf  sight. 

"  So  he  knew  this  Ladv  Cecil  years  ago,  in  Ireland,  and  never 
told  me  I     Odd  !     I  wonder  if  Lanty  knew  her  !     I  shall  ask." 

As  if  the  thought  had  evoked  him,  efiter  Lanty  Lafiferty,  a 
brush  in  one  hand,  a  pair  of  his  master's  riding-boots  in  the 
other,  darkened  by  an  Algerian  sun,  otherwise  not  a  whit 
changed  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  six  years'  soldiering.     He 


IM 


328 


^*THE  BATTLE   OF  FONTENOVr 


deposited  the  boots  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  stepped  back,  like 
a  true  artist,  to  survey  his  work. 

"Thim's  thim,"  said  Lanty,  "  an'  polished  till  ye  might 
a' most  shave  yersilf  in  thim.  Miss  Rose,  alanna!  is  ther  any- 
thing in  the  wurruld  wide  I  can  do  for  ye  ?  Shure  me  very 
heart's  broke  intirely  since  we  keni  to  this  place,  wid  sorra 
hand's  turn  to  do  from  mornin'  till  night," 

*'  What  !  And  you  complain  of  that,  I^anty ! "  his  young 
mistress  said,  with  a  smile.  "  Now,  I  should  think  you  would 
be  glad  of  a  holiday  after  your  active  life  out  in  Algiers.  Surely 
you  are  not  longing  so  soon  to  be  off  again  soldiering?" 

"  Sodgering,  is  it?  Oh,  thin,  'tis  wisliin'  it  well  I  am  for 
sodgering.  Sorra  luck  or  grace  is  thir  about  sich  murtherin* 
work.  I'm  not  sayin'  agin  fightin',  mind;  thir  wasn't  a  boy  in 
the  barony  fondher  av  a  nate  bit  av  a  scrimmag  thin  meself ; 
but  out  there  among  thim  black  haythins  av  Arabs,  an'  thim 
little  swearin'  divils  av  Frinchmin,  that  wor  wurse  nor  onny 
hay  thin — oh,  thin,  sweet  bad  luck  to  it  all !  Shure,  what  the 
captain  can  see  in  it  bates  me  intirely.  As  if  it  wasn't  bad 
enough  to  be  starved  on  black  bread  an'  blacker  soup,  an'  if 
ye  said  'pays'  about  it,  called  up  afore  a  coort-martial  an'  shot 
in  the  clappin'  av  yer  hands.  Faith,  it  turns  me  stomach  this 
minute  whin  I  think  av  all  the  tidy  boys  I've  seen  ordhered 
out  at  daybreak  to  kneel  on  thir  own  coffins  an'  be  shot  down 
like  snipe  for  mebbe  stickin'  a  frindly  Arab,  or  givin'  a  word  av 
divihnent  or  divarshun  to  thir  shuparior  officer.  May  ould 
N'.ck  fly  away  wid  Algiers  an'  all  belongin'  to  it  afore  Misther 
Redmond  takes  it  into  his  head  to  go  back  there  again.  It's 
little  I  thought  this  time  six  years  that  I'd  iver  set  fut  in  it  or 
any  other  haythin  Ian'  like  it,  whin  Misther  Redmond  an'  that 
beautiful  young  slip,  the  lord's  daughter,  wor  cooriin'  beyant 
i.i  'rorr\-glen.  Faix  !  it's  marred  I  thought  they'd  be  long  an' 
many  a  day  ago,  wid  mebbe  three  or  four  fine  childer  growin' 
lip  about  thim  an'  myself  dhry-nurse  to  thim  same.  But,  oh, 
wirra!  shure  the  Lord's  will  be  done  !  " 

Mr.  Lafiferty,  with  a  sort  of  groan  over  the  hoUowness  of 
human  hope,  shook  his  head,  took  a  last  admiring  look  at  the 
glitter  of  the  master's  boots,  and  then  turned  to  depart ;  but 
the  young  lady  detained  him. 

"  It's  a  harrowing  case,  Lanty.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  So 
the  lord  (I  suppose  you  allude  to  Lord  Ruysland,  and  don't 
mean  anything  irreverent,)  and  his  daughter  were  in  Ireland 
then  before  you  ever  went  to  Algiers  ?  " 


4< 


THE  BATTLE   OF  FONTENOY:' 


329 


"Ay;  ye  may  well  say  they  wor.  An'  maybe  it  isn't  in 
Algiers  we'd  be  to  this  day  av  it  wasn't  for  thini.  Heaven  for- 
give me,  but  the  thought  o'  thim  goes  between  me  an'  me 
night's  sleep.  Och  !  but  it's  the  desavin'  pair  they  wor.  But 
shure  what  betther  cud  ye  expect — didn't  the  English  iver  an' 
always  discave  the  Irish — the  curse  o'  Cromwell  on  thim  i 
There  they  wor — an'  it's  the  smile  and  civil  word  an'  the  'God 
save  ye  kindly,  Misther  Redmond  acushalla,'  they  had  for  him 
until  a  blind  man  cud  see  the  sthate  he  was  in.  Sorra  a  hate 
they  did  but  coort — Misther  Redmond  and  herself— an'  the 
ould  lord  lookin'  on  as  plazed  as  Punch.  Ay,  faith,  an'  their 
looks  an'  their  picters — wasn't  she  foriver  taken  otf  the  old 
rocks  and  the  castle  an'  meself,  for  that  mather  as  if  I  was  a 
baste.  An'  thin,  whin  it's  wantin'  to  marry  her  he  was — shure 
I  could  see  it — by  the  powers !  it's  up  an'  away  they  wor  like 
a  shot,  without  as  much  as  a  good-by  to  ye,  or  go  the  divil,  or 
the  laste  civiUty  in  life.  An'  the  young  masther — troth  !  it  'ud 
take  a  dhrop  from  ye  if  it  was  the  last  in  yer  eye — to  see  the 
shtate  he  was  in,  haither  aitin'  nor  slai")in',  and  fallin'  away  to 
dog-dhrive  afore  me  very  eyes.  An'  thin  all  at  once  Algiers 
kem  in  his  head,  an'  he  was  off  hot  foot.  Ye  might  as  well 
thry  to  sthop  Torrybahm  whin  it's  spouhtin,  as  sthop  him  whin 
he  takes  a  notion  into  his  head.  An'  av  coorse  I  wint  wid 
him — didn't  1  mind  him  an'  look  afther  him  since  he  was  a 
weeny  crathure  in  my  arrums.  She  was  an  inticin'  youn^  slip, 
I  say,  but  upon  my  conscience,  av  she  was  tin  lords'  daughters, 
it  was  a  mane-shpirited  way  to  sarve  him,  afther  him  savin'  her 
life,  too.     Divil  a  dirthier  trick  iver  I  heerd  tell  of." 

Rose  O'Donnell  smiled  bitterly. 

"  A  very  common  thing  in  her  world,  I  take  it,  Lanty.  And 
that's  Redmond's  secret?  and  I  am  to  see  herr  She  was 
pretty,  you  say,  Lanty  ?  " 

"  The  purtiest  darlin'  iver  me  eyes  looked  at,  barrin'  yer- 
silf." 

"Thanks,  Lanty.  Barring  myself — that's  understood,  of 
course.     Was  she  fair  or  dark  ?  " 

She  asked  the  question  with  a  woman's  minute  curiosity 
about  such  things.  It  was  so  hopelessly  dull  here  at  the 
"  Silver  Rose,"  that  she  felt  strongly  inclined  to  accept  the  in- 
vitation to  Scarswood  Park,  if  that  invitation  were  tendered. 

"  Fair,"  responded  Mr.  Lafterty ;  "  a  skin  like  the  shnow  on 
the  mountains,  hair  like  sthramin '  goold,  an'  eyes — oh  musha  ! 
bad  scran  to  thim,  the  beauties  o'  the  worruld  that  they  wor  j 


330 


"  THE  BATTLE   OF  FONTENOY^ 


i 


sure  it's  no  wondher  at  all  Masthcr  Redinond  wint  out  o'  his 
bead  a'most  about  her.  Trotli  she  was  purty,  Miss  Rose ;  it 
used  to  do  me  good  only  to  look  at  her  ;  an'  wid  iver  an' 
always  a  smile  on  her  beautiful  face,  an'  a  civil  word  for  ye 
whiniver  ye'd  meet  her.  liut  I  always  said,  an'  I  say  again,  it 
wasn't  the  action  av  a  rale  lady  to  thrate  masther  as  she  did, 
not  av  she  wor  twinty  earls'  daughters.  It's  like  a  gintleuian 
from  Ireland,  an'  an  Irish  gintleman  ;  av  ye  wern't  tould  the 
difference  shure  ye  might  think  they  wor  the  same." 

"  And  aren't  they,  Lanty  ?  " 

"  Sorra  taste — there's  all  the  difference  in  life.  A  gintleman 
from  Ireland  is  anybody,  faith — meself  an'  the  likes  o'  me,  for 
that  matter  ;  and  av  ye  come  to  that,  the  Laffertys  wor  the 
hoith  o'  quality  whin  the  O'Donnells  wor  kings  and  quanes. 
But  an  Irish  gintleman  i  Oh,  be  me  Sokins  I  an  Irish  gintle- 
man's  a  gintleman  indadc.^' 

But  Lanty's  mistress  did  not  hear  the  last  of  this  eloquent 
explanation.  She  was  gazing  from  behind  the  window  curtain 
at  a  stately  barouche,  containing  two  elegantly  dressed  ladies, 
which  had  just  driven  up  before  the  door.  Lady  Dangerfield 
and  the  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  she  felt  sure — no  such  visitors  ever 
stopped  at  the  doorway  of  the  Silver  Rose. 

'rhe  bowing  and  obsequious  landlord  and  landlady  bustled 
out  to  meet  the  distinguished  arrivals. 

A  moment  later,  and  the  cards  of  the  two  ladies  were  borne 
upstairs  and  presented  to  Miss  Rose  O'Donnell. 

*'  You  will  show  them  up  here  immediately,  Mrs.  Norton," 
she  said  to  the  dipi)ing  hostess  of  the  Silver  Rose. 

And  then,  with  a  soft  rustle  of  silk  and  muslin,  a  faint,  sweet 
perfume,  the  baronet's  petite  wife  and  the  earl's  tall,  graceful 
daughter  were  in  the  shabby  parlor  of  the  inn. 

Rose  O'Donnell  came  forward  to  meet  and  greet  them  with 
a  calm,  high-bred  composure  that  was  very  perfect.  In  her 
southern  home  she  was  not,  perhaps,  accustomed  to  ladies  of 
title,  but  she  certainly  had  mingled  in  the  highest  society  of  New 
Orleans.  How  ])retty  she  was,  and  how  like  those  dark  large 
eyes  of  blue  were  to  her  brother's.  It  was  Lady  Cecil's  first 
thought,  and  as  their  hands  clasped,  and  Cecil's  grave,  sweet 
blue  eyes  were  lifted  to  her  face,  she  stooped  down  with  a  sud- 
den, swift  impulse  and  kissed  her.  From  that  hour  these  two 
were  ever  warmest  friends. 

"  I  think  I  should  have  known  you  anywhere,  Miss  O'Don- 
nell," lady  Dangerfield  said,  "you  are  so  like  your  brother — 


'*THE  BATTLE   OF  FONTENOY.'' 


out  o'  his 

Rose;  it 

iver  an' 

)rd  for  ye 

^  again,  it 

_  she  did, 

jintlciiian 

toiild  the 


intleman 
'  me,  for 
wor  the 
1  quanes. 
>h  gin  tie- 
eloquent 
w  curtain 
id  ladies, 
ingerficld 
iters  ever 

y  bustled 

Te  borne 

N'orton,"    . 

rit,  sweet 
graceful 

em  with 
In  her 

adies  of 
of  New 
rk  large 
il's  first 
;,  sweet 
I  a  sud- 
2se  two 

3'Don. 

(tlier —  "■ 


331 


only  wanting  that  halt'-cynical,  half-sarcastic  air  he  and  all  men 
nowadays,  it  seems  to  me,  wear.  I  suppose  he  is  one  of  the 
believers  !;■  the  'Nothing  is  new,  and  nothing  is  true,  audit 
don't  signify'  docfv"  le  ;  he  looks  as  though  he  were.  I  .e  has 
told  you,  of  course,  how  he  saved  my  life  two  days  ago,  when 
our  boat  upset  ?  " 

"  Saved  your  life  !     Indeed,  '.e  has  not." 

Lady  Cecil  laughed  softly. 

"That's  like  Captain  O'Donnell — *on  their  own  merits  mod- 
est men  are  dumb ; '  and  he  is  very  modest.  He  saved  mine 
too — did  he  ever  tell  you  that  ?  " 

"No,"  Rose  said,  with  an  amused  smile  ;  "but  Lanty  has. 
Perhaps,  however,  you  have  forgotten  Lanty  ?  " 

"  Lanty — Lanty  Lafferty — is  he  here?  How  glad  I  shall  be 
to  see  him.  Forget  Mr.  Lafterty  I  Not  likely ;  he  was  my 
first  love.  I  don't  think  he  ever  knew  it,  and  in  all  those  years 
no  one  has  ever  replaced  him." 

Lady  Dqmgerfield  looked  at  her  laughing  cousin  with  some- 
thing of  a  malicious  gleam  in  her  black  eyes. 

"  Substituting  the  name  of  Redmond  O'Donnell  for  that  of 
Lanty  Lafferty,  I  dare  say  what  she  says  may  be  true  enough,"  . 
she  thought.  "  I  should  like  to  read  the  record  of  those  seven 
Irish  weeks,  my  handsome  Cecil,  and  see  if  I  could  not  find 
the  key  to  your  noted  indifference  to  all  men.  Miss  O'Don- 
nell,'-' aloud,  "  at  least  I  hope  that  secretive  brother  of  yours 
has  told  you  we  came  to  tender  the  hospitality  of  Scarswood 
Park — to  i.isist  indeed  upon  your  becoming  our  guest.  If 
you  knew  how  much  we  desire  it,  I  am  sure  you  would  not 
refuse  us  this  pleasure  We  are  all  most  anxious — Sir  Peter, 
myself.  Lady  Cecil — all.  It  inust  be  so  horribly  dull  for  you 
here  alone,  for  of  course  Cai)tain  O'Donnell,  like  all  of  his 
kind,  brothers  and  husbands,  is  no  company  whatever.  Except 
as  lovers,  men  might  as  well  be  images  of  wood,  for  all  the 
pleasure  one  has  in  their  society,  and  even  then  they  are  bores 
to  all  but  one.  We  will  take  no  denial ;  we  positively  insist 
upon  it." 

She  was  really  in  earnest — she  really  wished  it  most  eagerly. 
Whenever  a  new  fancy  struck  her,  she  hunted  it  down  with  the 
feverish  intensity  of  an  aimless,  idle  life,  and  she  had  a  fancy 
for  this  pale,  sihnt  young  Irishwoman  becoming  her  guest. 
Her  liking  for  the  brother  extended  to  the  sister,  and  through 
her  artificial  manner  sincere  cordiality  shone  now. 

"  You  ay/// come  ?  "  Lady  Cecil  added,  with  a  smile  and  a 


I 


I  I 


I  i 


I, 


V      I 


hi 


332 


'*  T//£  BATTLE   OF  F0NTENOY» 


glance  that  went  straight  to  Rose  O'Donnell's  heart.  "Your 
brother  was  hopelessly  obstinate  last  nigu:; ;  don't  make  ns 
think  obstinacy  is  a  family  tailing.  You  will  come,  and  Uiis 
evening  ;  Scarswood  is  the  pleasantest  country  house  1  know 
of." 

There  could  be  no  doubting  the  sincerity  of  the  invitation  — 
none  but  a  very  churl  could  have  refused.  Rose  O'Donnell,  under 
a  cloud  just  at  present,  was  the  farthest  i)ossible  from  a  churl. 
AViUi  a  smile  that  again  made  her  excessively  like  her  brother, 
she  i)romiscd,  and  the  ladies  from  the  Park  arose  to  go." 

"  The  carriage  shall  come  for  you  this  evening,"  Lady  Dan- 
gerfield  said.  "Your  brother  will  accompany  you,  and  dine 
with  us,  at  least.  This  evening  at  six,  then,  we  shall  expect 
you." 

And  then  the  cousins  swept  away  down  the  narrow  stairs, 
where  such  shining  visitors  were  rarely  seen,  and  into  the  ba- 
rouche, and  away  through  the  July  sunshine  back  to  lunch- 
eon. 

"  Pretty,"  was  Lady  Dangerfield's  verdict,  "  but  passcc. 
Looks  as  though  .she  were  in  trouble  of  some  sort.  Crossed  in 
love,  probab'y,"  with  a  short  laugh,  "out  in  her  American 
French  city." 

"She  is  in  ill  health  ;  did  not  Captain  O'Donnell  say  so  ?" 
replied  Lady  Cecil  with  grave  rebuke.  "  It  is  a  lovely  face  to 
my  mind — brunette  with  blue  eyes — a  rare  type." 

'*  It  is  a  feminine  repetition  cf  Redmond  O'Donnell' s  face  ; 
the  eyes  and  smile  are  as  like  as  they  can  be.  He  is  very 
handsome,  very  dashing,  very  distinguished,  Queenie,"  mali- 
ciously ;  "how  is  it  you  never  chanced  to  tell  me  you  spent 
sewn  long  weeks  with  him  among  the  hills  of  Ulster?" 

If  she  expected  to  see  hesitation  or  embarrassment  in  her 
cousin's  face,  she  was  mistaken.  That  jjroud,  fair  face,  those 
luminous  dark  eyes,  those  lovely  lips  kept  their  secret — if  secret 
there  were — well. 

"  Hardly  with  him,  I  think — with  papa,  Ginevra.  And  really, 
how  was  I  to  tell  the  circumstance  would  interest  you? — that 
you  would  honor  Redmond  O'Donnell  with  such  signal  marks 
of  your  favor?  It  would  be  some  trouble  to  keep  you  au 
courant  of  all  my  gentlemen  acquaintances." 

"And  he  saved  your  life;  and  you  were  only  sixteen,  and 
he — was  he  as  eminently  good-looking  six  years  ago  as  he  is 
to-day,  Queenie?" 

"  Better,  to  my  mind,"  Lady  Cecil  responded,  calmly ;  "  he 


**THE  BATTLE  t)F  FOJVTEJVOV." 


"Your 
'iiakc  us 
and  this 
c  1  know 

i  tat  ion  — 
<-']],  under 

a  churl. 

brother, 

ily  Dan- 
nid  dine 
exi)ect 

>vv  stairs, 
)  the  ba- 
o  luncii- 

Passcc. 
ossed  \\\ 
nierican 

ly  so  ?  " 
'  face  to 

's  face  ; 

is  very 

"    mali- 

u  spent 

t  in  her 
',  those 
f  secret 

really, 
'—that 
marks 
ou  au 

ti,  and 
>  he  is 


333 


-«» 


(< 


he 


looks  hlasli  and  cynical  now,  as  you  say.  He  had  not  worn 
out  his  trust  in  all  mankind  then  ;  and  1  confess  I  rather  prefer 
people  who  haven't  outlived  all  faith  in  their  fellow-creatures, 
and  who  have  one  or  two  human  emotions  left." 

"My  dear,"  I.ady  Dangerfield  said,  laughing,  "he  has  had 
the  misfortune  to  know  La  Rcine  Blanche,  Did  you  llesh 
your  maiden  sword  upon  him,  I  wonder  ?  You  had  to  begin 
your  career  with  some  one — as  well  a  wild  young  Irishman  as 
anything  else.  And  you  have  been  so  reticent,  my  dear,  on  the 
subject — too  tender  to  be  touched.  No,  don't  be  angry  ;  it 
isn't  worth  while,  and  might  spoil  your  appetite  for  game  pic 
and  Moselle.  You  knew  Redmond  O'Donnell  six  years  ago, 
and — you  are  to  marry  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — next  year  is  it? 
What  a  farce  life  is,  or  a  tragedy,  which  ?  " 

"  Life  is  what  we  make  it,"  Lady  Cecil  answered,  with  a  little, 
bitter  smile ;  "  a  tragedy  to  howl  over,  or  a  comedy  to  laug.i 
at.  The  wiser  philosophy  is  to  laugh,  I  believe,  since  it  is  out 
of  our  po\yer  to  alter  or  decide  over  fate.  There  is  Miss  Hern- 
castle  gathering  flowers  ;  how  fond  she  seems  to  be  of  flowers  ! 
What  a  dark,  somber  face  she  has  ! — what  an  extraordinary 
person  altogether — like  the  heroine  of  a  romance.  But  then 
governesses  always  rt;r^  heroines,  are  they  not  ? — prime  favorites 
with  novelists.  I  rather  fear  sJie  has  found  life  too  dark  a 
tragedy,  by  any  i^ossibility  to  make  a  jest  of" 

"  She  is  the  best  embroideress  I  ever  saw,"  Lady  Danger- 
field  said,  sweeping  her  silken  robes  up  the  sunlit  stairs.  "  I 
found  it  out  by  chance  yesterday.  Her  work  in  lace  and  cam- 
bric is  something  marvelously  beautiful.  1  had  some  thought 
of  sending  her  away — one  doesn't  want  a  person  about  the 
house  who  terrifies  every  o:ie  she  meets — but  now  I  shall  retain 
her.  Her  embroideries  aie  worth  three  hundred  a  year  to  me, 
and  she  certainly  has  accrpted  a  very  low  salary." 

She  certainly  had,  and  that  was  a  great  consideration  with 
my  lady.  As  has  been  said,  long  years'  bitter  battle  with  i)ov- 
erty  had  tr.  ight  her  the  value  of  wealth,  and  though  she  squan- 
dered Sir  Peter's  income  recklessly  on  her  own  pleasure  and 
gratification,  she  yet  could  be  unsi)eakably  mean  in  small  things. 
Now  that  she  had  discovered  how  useful  she  could  make  Miss 
Herncastle,  she  resolved  not  only  to  retain  her,  but  to  patron- 
ize her.  Miss  Herncar,lle  also  had  exquisite  taste  and  judgment 
in  all  matters  pertaining  to  the  toilet — why  not  dismiss  her 
maid  by  and  by,  and  install  this  useful  and  willing  nursery 
governess  iil  her  place  ? 


?■'  l\ 


i 


334 


*'T///i:  BATTLE   OF  FONTENOY^ 


Miss  O'Donnoll  came  over  from  Castleford  in  the  gray  of 
the  summer  evening,  with  her  belongings,  but  alone.  Sir  Ar 
thur  Tregenna  had  sought  out  the  chasseur  at  his  fishing  stream, 
and  the  twain  would  retiuii  together  to  dinner.  She  was  shown 
to  her  room,  and  exchanged  her  dark  gray  dress  for  a  dinner 
robe  of  blue  silk,  the  hue  of  her  eyes,  and  descended  to  fmilher 
hostess  aiul  cousin  s[K'nding  the  long  hour  Ix'fore  dinner  on  the 
velvety  lawn  sloping  away  beneath  the  long,  wide,  open 
French  window  of  the  drawing-room.  The  children  were  at 
l)lay  on  the  ierrace  below,  where  gaudy  peacocks  rutted  in 
the  sun,  a  million  leaves  tluttered  cool  and  green  above  them, 
and  birds  caroled  in  the  dark  shade  of  the  branches.  Miss 
Ilerncastle,  in  her  gray  silk  dress,  sat  at'a  little  distance,  her 
fingers  tlying  among  niy  lady's  laces.  Lady  Cecil  bent  over  a 
book,  her  fair,  delicate  face  and  slight,  graceful  figure  outlined 
against  the  golden  and  puri^le  light  of  the  sunset,  lilies  in  her 
bronze  hair,  a  cluster  of  field  lilies  on  her  breast — tall,  slim, 
sweet.  My  lady  leaned  back  lazily  in  hej*  rustic  chair,  doing 
nothing — it  was  an  amiable  trait  in  this  lady's  character  that 
she  never  did  do  anything — beautifully  dressed,  powdered, 
l^aintcd,  coiffured,  and  awaiting  impatiently  the  arrival  of  the 
dinner  hour  and  the  gentlemen.  Major  Frankland  was  absent 
with  the  earl,  and  her  husband  of  course,  whether  in  his  study 
or  out  of  it,  did  not  count.  In  tlie  absence  of  the  nobler  sex, 
my  lady  always  collapsed  on  principle — gaping  piteously.  She 
never  read,  she  never  worked,  she  never  thought.  Society  and 
adulation  were  her  stimulants — in  their  absence  life  became  an 
unbearable  bore. 

She  hailed  the  advent  of  Rose  O'Donnell  now  with  relief. 
She  couldn't  talk  to  the  governess  —that  were  too  great  conde- 
scension— the  children  were  noisy  nuisances,  and  T.ady  Cecil 
was  interested  in  her  book.  The  waving  trees,  the  flushed  sky, 
the  sleeping  sea,  the  silent  emerald  earth — all  the  fair  evening 
prospect  hatl  no  charm  for  her. 

"  You  find  us  alone  yet,  Miss  O'Donnell,"  she  said,  as  Rose 
took  a  seat  near.  "  Our  fishermen  have  not  returned,  and  sol- 
itude invariably  bores  me  to  death.  Cecil  has  taken  to  litera- 
ture, as  you  see,  and  is  company  for  no  one.  1  never  read, 
Miss  O'Donnell — books  are  all  alike,  hopelessly  stupid  nowa- 
days.    What  is  that  you  have  there,  Queenie  ?  " 

J^ady  Cecil  looked  up. 

"Ballads  of  Ireland.  I  came  upon  it  by  chance  in  the 
library  half  an  hour  ago.    I  am  reading  the  battle  of  Fontenoy. 


«^55i^' 


"77/^  BATTLE   OF  FONTENOY» 


335 


he  gray  of 
Sir  Ar 
ig  stream, 
ivas  sliowii 
r  a  (liniu-T 

0  fiiul  her 
leron  the 
<-Ie,    open 

1  were  at 
rutted  in 

)ve  them, 
PS.     Miss 
ance,  her 
nt  over  a 
outlined 
!s  in  her 
all,  slim, 
ir,  doing 
cter  tiiat 
)M'(lered, 
il  of  the 
■s  absent 
lis  study 
L)ler  sex, 
ly.    She 
iety  and 
:anie  an 

1  relief, 
conde- 
\y  Cecil 
led  sky, 
jvenins: 

Ls  Rose 
Lnd  sol- 
)  litcra- 
:r  read, 
nowa- 


in  the 
tsnoy. 


» 


Miss  O'Donncll,  did  any  of  your  ancestors  fight  at  the  battle  of 
I'ontenoy  ?  " 

"  So  the  legends  of  our  house  say,  at  least.  '  And  by  the 
same  token,'  as  T.anty  would  observe,  it  was  a  Redmond 
O'Donncll  who  fought  and  fell  on  the  fatal  field  ol   Fontenoy." 

Lady  Dangerfield  looked  interested. 

"A  Redmond  O'Donncll.  Really  I  Read  it,  Queenie,  will 
you  ?  " 

"  Never  read  aloud,"  I,ady  Cecil  arswered  ;  "  it  is  an  ac- 
complishment I  do  not  possess."  She  glanced  suddenly  at  the 
busy  fingers  of  the  governess. 

"  Miss  Herncastle,"  she  called. 

Miss  Herncastle  jflaused  in  her  work,  and  looked  up. 

*•  You  will  read  it  to  Lady  Dangerfield,  will  you  not  ?  Some- 
how I  think  yon  can  read  aloud." 

"  I  can  try,"  Miss  Herncastle  answered.  She  laid  down  her 
work,  advanced,  took  the  book,  and  stood  up  before  her  auditors. 
The  last  light  of  the  setting  sim  shone  full  upon  her  tall,  statu- 
esque figure,  her  pale,  changeless  face,  locked  ever  in  the 
l^assionless  calm  of  marble.  She  began.  Yes,  Miss  Herncastle 
could  read  aloud — Lady  Cecil  had  been  right.  What  a  won- 
drously  musical  voice  it  was — so  deep,  so  calm,  so  sweet.  She 
made  a  very  striking  picture  standing  there,  outlined  against 
the  purple  gloaming,  the  sunlight  gilding  her  face  and  her  dead- 
black  hair.  So  thought  Rose  O'Donncll,  so  thought  Lady 
Cecil  Clive,  so  thought  two  gentl'^iuan  advancing  slowly,  un- 
seen and  unheard,  up  the  avenue,  uri..er  the  trees — Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna  and  Cai)tain  O'Donncll.  Both,  as  if  by  some  simul- 
taneous impulse,  stopped  to  listen. 

"  ' Push  on,  my  housclioUl  cav.ilry  ! '   King  l.otiis  mudly  cried  ; 
To  deatli  tliey  rush,  but  rude  their  siiock— not  unavenged  they  died. 
On  through  th'.f  camp  the  cohimn  trod — Kinir  Louis  turns  his  rein. 
'  Not  yet,  my  hege,'  Saxe  interposed,  '  the  Irish  troops  remain.' 
.......... 

"  '  Lord  Clare,'  he  says,  '  you  have  your  wish  ;  there  are  your  Saxon  foes  !  • 

Thf  marshal  almost  smiles  to  see,  so  furiously  he  goes  ! 

How  fierce  the  look  these  exiles  wear,  who're  wont  to  be  so  gay, 

The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  u-.  their  hearts  to-day — 

The  treaty  broken  ere  the  ink  wherewith  'twas  writ  could  dry, 

Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their  women's  parting  cry. 

Their  priesthood  hunted  c'own  like  wolves,  tlieir  country  overthrown — 

Each  looks  as  if  revenue  for  all  were  staked  on  him  alone. 

On,  Fontenoy — on,  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere 

Rushed  on  to  fight  a  nobler  band  than  these  proud  exiles  were. 

"  O'Crien's  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as  halting,  he  commands, 

'  Fix  bay'ncts — charge  ! '  like  mountain  storm  rush  on  these  fiery  hands  I 

Thin  is  the  LIugiis'.i  column  now,  and  faint  their  volleys  grow, 

Vet  must'ring  all  the  strength  tliey  have  they  make  a  gallant  show  ; 

They  dres?  their  ra»ks  upon  the  hill  to  lace  that  battle  wind — 


33*5 


**THE  BATTLE  OF  FONTENOY» 


\. 


Their  bayonets  the  breakers'  foam  ;  like  rocks  the  men  behind  ! 
One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when  through  the  surging  smoke. 
With  empty  guiis  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong  Irish  broke. 
On,  Fontenoy — on,  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza  ! 
'  Revenge  !     Remember  Limerick  !    Dash  down  the  Sassenagh  !' 

"  I.ike  lions  leaping  at  a  fold  when  mad  with  hunger's  pang, 

Right  up  agauist  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles  sprang  ! 

Bright  was  their  steel,  'tis  blcMidy  now,  their  giuis  are  filled  with  gore  ; 

Through  shattered  ranks,  and  severed  hies,  and  trampled  flags  they  tore  : 

The  English  strove  with  desperate  strLngth,  paused,  rallied,  staggered,  fled— 

The  green  hillside  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with  dead  ; 

Across  the  plain  and  far  away  passed  on  that  hideou$  wrack, 

While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  their  track. 

On,  Fontenoy — on,  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun. 

Wi''  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand — tlie  field  is  fought  and  won  1 " 

She  ])ause(].  Sweet,  clear,  thrilling  as  a  bugle  blast  rang  out 
the  stirring  words.  A  light  leaped  into  her  eyes,  a  glow  came 
over  her  pale  face  ;  every  heart  there  stirred  under  the  ring  of 
her  tone,  iier  look,  her  gesture  as  she  ceased. 

"By  Jupiter!"  Redmond  O'Donnell  exclaimed,  under  his 
breath,  "  that  woman  is  a  marvel." 

Lady  Cecil  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  book,  a  look  of 
surprised  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

"  Miss  Herncastle,"  she  said,  "  you  read  that  splendidly.  The 
poet  should  have  heard  you.  I  knew  you  could  read  but  not 
like  that.     You  are  a  born  actress." 

The  governess  bowed,  smiled,  and  walked  back  with  immov- 
able composure  to  her  place. 

"  Shall  we  approach  now  ?  "  Sir  Arthur  said,  in  a  constrained 
voice. 

There  was  no  re|)ly.  He  looked  at  his  companion — the 
eyes  of  Redmond  O'Donnell  were  fixed  on  Miss  Herncastle 
with  such  a  look  of  utter  wonder — of  sheer  amaze  and  of  rcc- 
ognition — that  the  baronet  stared  at  him  in  turn.  Standing 
there  it  had  Hashed  upon  him  like  an  inspiration  where  he  had 
seen  Miss  Herncastle  before.  He  started  like  a  man  from  a 
trance  at  the  sound  of  the  baronet's  surprised  voice. 

"  How  thunderstruck  you  look,  O'Donnell,"  he  said,  with  a 
touch  of  impatience  in  his  tone  ;  "  did  you  never  before  hear 
a  lady  read  ?  " 

The  half-irritated  words  fully  aroused  him. 

Redmond  O'Donnell  turned  away  from  the  governess  with  a 
slight  laugh. 

"  Rarely  like  that,  mon  ami.  And  I  have  just  solved  a  rid- 
dle that  has  puzzled  me  since  last  night.  I  think  I  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  both  seeing  and  hearing  Lady  Dangerfield's  very 
remarkable  governess  before  to-day." 


tore  : 
:d,  fled— 


5t  rang  out 
glow  came 
the  ring  of 

under  his 

,  a  look  of 

lidly.  The 
ad  but  not 

ith  innnov- 

on  strained 

inion — the 
-lerncastle 
ind  of  rcc- 
Standing 
re  he  hud 
lan  from  a 

aid,  with  a 
)efore  hear 

less  with  a 

Ived  a  rid- 
have  had 
lold's  very 


t- 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW.  337 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE    MYSTERY    OF    BRACKEN    HOLLOW. 

ISS  HERNCASTLE'S  audience  had  been  increased 
by  still  two  more.  The  Earl  of  Ruysland  and  Major 
Frankland,  sauntering  up  the  avenue,  had  also  ]iaused 
afar  off  to  listen.  Against  the  rose  and  gold  light  of 
the  summer  sunset,  Miss  Herncastle's  tall  figure  and  striking  fiice 
made  a  very  impressive  picture.  It  was  a  pretty  tableau  alto- 
gether :  Lady  Cecil,  fair,  languid,  sweet ;  my  lady  in  her  rich 
robes  and  sparkling  jewels;  Rose  O'Donnell  with  her  small, 
piquant  face  literally  seeming  all  eyes ;  and  the  accessories  of 
waving  trees,  luminous  sky,  tinkling  fountains,  and  fragrant 
flowers. 

"  Ah ! "  Lord  Ruysland  said,  when  the  spell  was  broken  and 
he  and  his«  companion  moved  on  once  more,  "  what  have  we 
here  ?  A  second-rate  actress  from  the  Surrey  side  of  the 
Thames  ?  Upon  my  life,  so  much  histrionic  talent  is  quite 
thrown  away.  Miss  Herncastle  (I  wonder  if  her  faiher's  name 
was  Herncastle,  by  the  bye  ?)  is  wasting  her  sweetness  o\\ 
desert  air.  On  the  boards  of  Drury  Lane  her  rendering  of 
Fontenoy  would  be  good  for  at  least  two  rounds  from  pit  and 
gallery.  Bravo  I  Miss  Herncastle!"  He  bowed  before  her 
now  with  the  stately  courtliness  of  his  youth,  "  I  have  read  of 
entertaining  angels  unawares — are  we  entertaining  a  modern 
Mars,  all  unknown  until  now  ?  " 

The  covert  sneer  that  generally  embellished  everything  this 
noble  peer  said  was  so  covert,  that  only  a  very  sensitive  ear 
could  have  caught  it.  Miss  Herncastle  caught  it  and  lifted  her 
great  gray  eyes  for  one  moment  to  his  face — full,  steadily. 
Something  in  the  grave,  clear  eyes  seemed  to  disconcert  him — 
he  stopi)ed  abruptly  and  turned  away  from  her. 

"  Gad  !  "  he  thought,  '*  it  is  atrange.  Never  sn.w  such  an  un- 
accountable likeness  in  all  my  life.  SJie  has  looked  at  me  a 
thousand  times  with  just  such  a  look  as  Miss  Herncastle  gave 
me  now.  Confound  Miss  Heincastle  !  What  the  deuce  does 
the  young  woman  mei'-n,  by  looking  so  horribly  like  other 
women  dead  and  gone  ?  " 

He*  turned  from  the  party  and  walked  with  a  sulky  sense  of 
injury  ii.to  the  house.  But  all  the  way  up  to  his  room,  all  the 
time  the  elaborate  mysteries  of  the  toilet  were  going  on  (and 
15 


338 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW. 


i  m 


the  mysteries  of  Lady  Dangcrfield's  herself  were  plain  reading 
compared  to  this  old  dandy  of  the  ancient  regime),  all  the  time 
these  strong,  steady  gray  eyes  pursued  him  like  an  uncomforta- 
ble ghost. 

•'  Hang  Miss  Herncastle,"  again  the  noble  earl  growled. 
"Cecil  doesn't  look  like  her  mother; — what  business,  then, 
has  an  utter  stranger  to  resemble  her  in  this  absurd  way?  It's 
like  living  in  the  house  with  a  nightmare  ;  my  digestion  is  up- 
set for  the  rest  of  the  day.  It's  deucedly  unpleasant  and,  egad  ! 
I  think  I  must  ask  Ginevra  to  dismiss  her,  if  she  continues  to 
disturb  me  in  this  way." 

Redmond  O'Donnell  had  stood  a  little  aloof,  stroking  his 
mustache  meditatively,  and  gazing  at  the  governess.  A  per- 
fumed blow  of  a  fan  on  the  arm,  a  soft  little  laugh  in  his  ear,  re- 
called him. 

"  *And  still  he  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew  !'  Is  Miss 
Herncastle  the  Gorgon's  head,  or  is  it  a  case  of  love  at  sight. 
In  either  event,  let  me  present  )'ou  and  exorcise  the  spell." 

It  was  Lady  Cecil's  smiling  face  that  he  turned  to  see.  Lady 
Cecil,  who,  with  a  wave  of  that  fragrant  fan,  summoned  the  gov- 
erness to  her  side. 

'*  Miss  Herncasde,  take  compassion  on  this  wretched  exile 
of  Erin,  and  say  something  consolatory  to  him.  He  stands 
helplessly  here  and  '  sighs  and  looks,  sighs  and  looks,  sighs 
and  looks,  and  looks  again.'  Captain  Redmond  O'Donnell, 
Le  Beau  Chasseur — Miss  Herncastle." 

She  ilitted  away  as  she  s[)oke  with  a  saucy,  backward  glance 
at  Le  Beau  Chasseur,  and  up  to  her  cousin  Ginevra. 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  my  lady,"  with  a  little  housemaid's  Cour- 
tesy, "I  have  a  favor  to  ask.  Don't  banish  poor  Miss  Hern- 
castle to  mope  to  death  in  the  dreary  upper  region  of  the  nur- 
sery and  school-room.  She  is  a  lady — treat  her  as  such — your 
guest — treat  her  as  a  guest.     Let  her  conie  to  dinner." 

"Queenie  !  Miss  Herncastle  to  dinner  !  My  guest  !  What 
Quixotic  nonsense  you  talk.  She  is  my  dependant,  not  my 
visitor." 

"That  is  her  misfortune,  not  her  fault.  Miss  Herncastle  is 
a  lady  to  her  liiiger  tips,  and  fifty  times  cleverer  than  you  or  I. 
See  how  she  interests  all  the  gentlemen.  Issue  your  com- 
mands, O  Empress  of  Scarswood.  She  will  make  our  heavy 
family  dinner  go  off" 

"  Interest  the  gentlemen !  Yes,  T  should  say  so.  She 
seems  to  entertain  Captain  O'Donnell  and  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 


i% 


• 

in  reading 
11  the  time 
icomforta- 

giowlcd. 
I  CSS,  then, 
/ay?  It's 
ion  is  up- 
md,  egad ! 
ntinues  to 

roking  his 
j.  A  per- 
lis  ear,  re- 
Is  Miss 
e  at  sight, 
spell." 
>e.  Lady 
d  the  gov- 

:hed  exile 
le  stands 
oks,  sighs 
'Donnell, 

rd  glance 

id's  Coiir- 

iss  Hern- 

the  nur- 

ch — your 

it!  What 
,  not  my 

ncastle  is 
ycni  or  I. 
)ur  com- 
ur  heavy 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW, 


so. 


She 
Pregenna 


339 


Jfm 


pretty  thoroughly  at  this  moment.  Qucenie,  I  don't  understand 
you ;  you  should  be  the  last  on  earth  to  ask  for  much  of  Miss 
Herncastle.     Where  arc  your  eyes  ?  " 

"In  their  old  situation.  You  don't  understand  me?  "  Lady 
Cecil  laughed  a  little,  and  glanced  ov<t  at  the  two  gentlemen 
to  whom  the  tall  governess  talked.  'No,  perhaps  not — per- 
haps I  don't  quite  understand  myself.  Never  mind  that ;  per- 
haps I  like  Miss  Herncastle — perhaps  the  spell  of  the  enchan- 
tress is  over  me,  too.  We  won't  ask  questions,  like  a  good 
little  cousin ;  we  will  only  ask  Miss  Herncastle  to  dinr^er  to- 
day, to-morrow,  and  all  the  to-morrows  ?  " 

*•  Well,  certainly,  Queenie,  if  you  really  wish  it ;  but  I  con- 
fess I  catit  understand — " 

"  Don't  try,  ma  chvre ;  'where  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly  to 
be  wise.'  Once  a  lady,  always  a  lady,  is  it  not  ?  and  though 
Miss  Herncastle  be  a  governess  to-day,  she  has  been  some- 
thing far  difterent  in  days  gone  by.  Thanks  for  this  favor. 
Let  your  invitation  be  graciou?,  Ginevra,  as  your  invitations 
can  be  when  you  like." 

She  turned  away  and  walked  into  the  house.  Her  cousin 
looked  after  her  with  a  perplexed  face.  What  could  Queenie 
mean  ?  Why,  it  was  plain  as  the  rose-light  yonder  in  the  west 
that  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  was  going  to  fall  in  love  with  her ; 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  who  had  come  down  here  expressly  to 
fall  in  love  with  Lady  Cecil  Clive ;  Sir  Arthur,Mn  whom  all 
Lady  Cecil's  hopes  and  ambitions  should  be  centered.  And 
here  was  Lady  Cecil  ^ow  begging  this  inconvenient  governess 
might  be  brought  forward,  thrown  into  his  society,  treated  as 
an  equal,  and  left  to  work  her  Circean  spells. 

"  It's  the  strangest  thing  I  ever  heard  of — it's  absurd,  pre- 
posterous. However,  as  I  have  promised,  I  suppose  I  must 
perform.  And  what  will  (Jncle  Raoul  say  ?  I  shall  keep  an 
eye  upon  you  this  first  evening.  Miss  Herncastle,  and  if  I  find 
you  attempt  to  entrap  Sir  Arthur,  your  first  evening  will  be 
your  last." 

Miss  Herncastle's  two  cavaliers  fell  back  as  my  lady  ap- 
])eared.  The  other  gentlemen  had  gone  to  their  rooms  to 
dress  for  dinner  ;  those  two  followed  now.  Captain  O'Donnell's 
share  in  the  conversation  had  been  slight,  but  there  was  a  look 
of  conviction  on  his  face  as  he  ran  up  to  his  room. 

"  It  is  she,"  he  said  to  himsslf ;  "  there  is  not  a  doubt  about 
it.     A  nursery  governess.     Rather  a  disagreeable   change,  1 


340 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW. 


1  ■-: 


■  ) 


should  imagine,  after  the  life  she  has  left.     What  in  the  name 
of  all  that  is  mysterious  can  have  brought  her  here?" 

Miss  Herncastle  listened  in  grave  surprise  as  my  lady  tersely 
and  qurtly  issued  her  commands. 

'*  It  is  my  desire,  at  the  solicitation  of  T.ady  Cecil  Clive,  Miss 
Herncastle,  that  you  dine  with  us  to-day,"  she  said,  snapijishly. 
"There  is  no  necessity  for  any  change  in  your  dress.  You  are 
well  enough." 

Miss  Herncastle  was  robed  like  a  Quakeress,  in  gray  silk,  a 
pearl  broovh  fastening  her  lace  collar,  and  a  knot  of  blue  rib- 
bon in  her  hair.  She  looked  doubtfully  at  my  lady  as  she 
listened. 

"  Jyady  Cecil  Clive  wishes  me  to  dine  with  you  to-day,  my 
lady?"  she  repeated,  as  though  not  sure  she  had  heard  aright. 

"  I  have  said  so,"  my  lady  re[)lied,  still  more  sn^pinshly.  "I 
don't  pretend  to  understand,  only  she  does,  '.hat  is  enough. 
Lady  Cecil's  wishes  are  invariably  mine." 

And  then  my  lady,  with  her  silken  train  sweeping  majesti- 
cally behind  her,  sailed  away,  and  the  governess,  who  had  so 
signally  come  to  honor,  was  left  alone — alone  with  the  paling 
splendor  of  the  sunset,  with  the  soft  flutter  of  the  July  wind, 
with  the  twitter  of  the  birds  in  the  branches,  and  the  peacocks 
promenading  to  and  fro  on  the  stone  terraces.  These  peacocks, 
with  their  stately  strut  and  outstretched  tails,  bore  an  absurd 
resemblancei^  to  my  lady  herself,  and  Miss  Herncastle's  darkly 
thoughtful  face  broke  into  a  smile  as  she  saw  it. 

"As  the  queen  pleases,"  she  said,  with  a  shrug.  "And  I 
am  to  dine  with  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  the 
Lady  Cecil,  and  two  baronets.  Some  of  us  are  born  great, 
some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon 
them.  I  am  one  of  the  latter,  it  apjiears.  I  thought  the 
power  to  wonder  at  anything  earthly  liad  left  me  forever,  but  I 
wonder — I  wonder  what  Lady  Cecil  means  by  this." 

Miss  Herncastle,  the  governess,  half  an  hour  later  sat  down 
among  this  very  elegant  comi)any  at  dinner.  Sir  Peter  Dan- 
gerlield  scowled  through  his  eye-glass  as  he  took  his  seat. 

"  What  the  deuce  does  this  mean  ?  "  he  thought,  savagely ; 
"bringing  the  brats'  governess  to  dinner.  To  annoy  me,  noth- 
ing else;  that's  her- amiable  motive  always  to  annoy  me." 

Miss  Herncastle  found  herself  placed  between  the  Earl  cf 
Ruysland  and  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  The  carl,  immaculatelv 
got  up,  spotless,  ruffled,  snowy  linen,  tail  coat,  rose  in  ins 
button-hole,  diamond  ring  on  his  hngcr,  hair  perfumed,  and 


t 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW. 


the  uame 

» 

ady  tersely 

^live,  Miss 

.nappishly. 

You  are 

jray  silk,  a 
'  blue  rib- 
dy  as  she 

;o-day,  my 
ard  aright, 
•ishly.  "I 
s  enough. 

ig  majesti- 
:io  had  so 
the  paling 
July  wind, 
l)cacocks 
peacocks, 
an  absurd 
e's  darkly 

"  And  I 
sland,  the 
orn  great, 
rust  upon 
Dught  the 
ver,  but  1 

sat  down 
eter  I)an- 
cat. 

savagely ; 
nic,  nolh- 
ne." 

c  I'-arl  of 
lacu  lately 
se  in  his 
lied,  and 


341 


\ 


m 


hands  white  and  delicate  as  his  daughter's  own,  looked  the 
whole  patrician  Peerage  of  England  iiersonified  in  himself. 
And  with  all  the  suave  gallantry  of  a  latter-day  Chesterfield  he 
paid  complimenis  and  made  himself  eminently  agreeable  to  the 
lady  by  whom  he  was  seated.  His  digestion  might  be  upset, 
his  peace  of  mind  'lestroyed  by  the  proximity,  but  his  hand- 
some face  was  placid  as  a  summer  lake. 

"  Your  reading  of  that  poem  was  something  quite  wonderful. 
Miss  Herncastle,  I  give  you  my  word,  I  have  heard  some  of 
the  best  elocutionists  of  the  day — on  the  stage  and  off  it — 
but  upon  my  life,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  might  make  the  best 
of  them  look  to  their  laurels.  1  wonder  now,  with  your  talents 
and — pardon  an  old  man — your  personal  ap[)earance,  you  have 
never  turned  your,  thoughts  in  that  direction — the  stage  1  mean. 
It  is  our  gain  at  present,  but  it  is  the  loss  of  the  theatrical 
world." 

Miss  Herncastle  smiled — supremely  at  her  ease. 

'*  Your  lordship  is  pleased  to  be  complimentary  or  sarcastic 
— the  latter,  1  greatly  fear.  It  is  one  thing  to  read  a  poem 
decently,  and  quite  another  to  electrify  the  world  as  Lady 
Macbeth.  I  may  teach  children  of  nine  to  spell  words  of  two 
syllables  and  the  nine  parts  of  speech,  but  I  fear  I  would  re- 
ceive more  hisses  than  vivas  on  the  boards  of  the  Princess." 

By  some  chance  she  looked  up  as  she  finished  speaking,  and 
met  a  pair  of  dark,  keen  eyes  looking  at  her  across  the  table, 
with  the  strangest,  most  sarcastic  look.  Those  cynical  blue 
eyes  belonged  to  the  Irish-African  soldier,  Captain  O'Donncll. 
He  smiled  as  he  met  her  gaze. 

"  Miss  Herncastle  does  herself  less  than  justice,"  he  said 
very  slowly.  '*  A  great  actress  she  might  never  be — we  have 
no  great  actresses  nowadays — but  a  clever  actress,  I  am  very 
sure.  As  to  Zady  MacbdJi^  I  have  no  means  of  knowing,  but 
in  the  character  of  Ophelia,  now,  I  am  quite  certain,  she  would 
be  charming." 

Miss  Herncastle's  steady  hand  was  lifting  a  glass  of  cham 
pagne.     The  sudden  and  great  start  she  gave  overset  the  glass 
and  spilled  the  wine. 

"  IIow  awkward  I  am  ! "  she  said  with  a  lauuh  ;  "if  I  com- 
mit  such  gauchcrks  as  this,  1  fear  Lady  Dangerfield  will  repent 
having  invited  her  governess  to  dinner.  Thanks,  my  lord ; 
don't  trouble  yourself;  my  dress  has  escaped." 

In  the  trilling  confusion  of  the  accident  Captain  O'Donnell's 
remark  passed  unanswered,  and  it  was  noticeable  that  Miss 


M 


342 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW, 


[I '    "^' 


"5 


^|- 


Herncastle  took  care  not  to  meet  those  steel-blue  eyes  once 
again  until  the  ladies  left  the  tal)le. 

It  was  he  who  sprang  up  and  held  the  door  open  for  them, 
and  as  she  swept  by  last,  she  lifted  her  large  eyes  suddenly,  and 
shot  him  a  i)iercing  glance.  He  bowed  slightly,  smiled  slightly, 
then  the  door  closed,  and  the  gentlemen  drew  up,  charged  and 
toasted. 

It  was  rather  remarkable  that  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  usually 
the  most  abstemious  of  men,  drank  mucii  more  wine  than  any 
one  there  had  ever  seen  him  drink  before.  Major  Frankland, 
from  his  place  at  the  end  of  the  table,  saw  it,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  a  sof/o  voce  comment  to  his  neighbor  O'Donnell. 

"  Used  to  be  absurdly  temperate — a  very  anchorite,  what- 
ever an  anchorite  may  be.  1  don't  know  whether  you  have 
noticed,  but  all  the  men  who  have  lost  their  heads  for  Ru\s- 
land's  peerless  daughter  and  been  rejected,  have  taken  to  port 
and  sherry,  and  stronger  still.  It  seems  to  be  synonymous — ■ 
falling  in  love  wid?  Lady  Cecil,  and  falling  a  victim  to  strong 
drink." 

"  Well,  yes,  it  does,"  the  chasseur  responded.  "  I  remem- 
ber Annesly  Carruthers,  in  Paris,  used  to  jump  to  his  feet,  half 
sprung,  with  flashing  eyes  and  flowing  goblet,  and  cry,  '  Here's 
to  La  Reine  Blanche — Heaven  bless  her  ! '  I  wonder  if  that 
tipsy  prayer  was  heard?  He  took  to  hard  drinking  after  she 
jilted  him  ;  he  used  to  be  pretty  sober  before.  There  seems 
to  be  a  fatality  about  it,"  the  young  Irishman  said,  reflectively, 
filling  his  own  glass.  "  Powercourt  drank  himself  blind,  too, 
exchanged  into  a  line  regiment  ordered  to  Canada,  and  /le  was 
seldom  drunk  more  than  three  times  a  week,  before  she  did  for 
him.  I  wonder  how  it  is  I  She  doesn't  order  'cm  to  '  Fill  ti.e 
bumper  fair  ;  every  drop  they  s))rinkle  o'er  the  brow  of  Care 
smoothes  away  a  wrinkle,'  you  don't  sui)[)ose,  does  she?" 

"1  don't  sup]:)ose  Tregenna's  one  of  her  victims,  certainly," 
responded  Frankland.  "  Lucky  beggar  !  he's  safe  to  win,  with 
his  long  rent-roll  and  longer  lineage." 

'*  Ah  !  awfully  old  family,  I'm  given  to  understand,"  O'Don- 
nell said;  "were  barons  in  the  days  of  Edward  the  Confessor 
and  William  the  other  fellow.  But  then  La  Lleine  Blanche  has 
such  a  talent  for  breaking  hearts  and  turning  )"''.;ads;  and  what 
a  woman  may  do  in  any  given  phase  of  lite  is,  as  Lord  Dun- 
dreary says,  '  One  of  these  things  no  fellah  can  understand.'  " 

They  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  whence  sounds  of  music 
already  came  wafted  through  the  open  window,  but  in  the 


"v^i 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW. 


343 


;yes  once 

for  them, 
lenly,  and 
d  slightly, 
irged  and 

a,  usually 
than  any 
rankland, 
ugged  his 
'Donnell. 
ite,  what- 
you  have 
for  Ruys- 
;n  to  port 
lynious — ■ 
to  strong 

I  remem- 
feet,  half 
',  '  Here's 
ler  if  that 
;  after  she 
ere  seenis 
llectively, 
)lind,  too, 
wCi  he.  was 
he  did  for 
.  '  Fill  tl-.e 
V  of  Care 
ie?" 

;ertain)y," 
win,  with 

"  O' Don- 
Confessor 
\inche  has 
and  what 
.ord  Dun- 
stand.'  " 
s  of  music 
ut  in  the 


drawing-room  they  found  Miss  Herncastle  alone.  The  soft, 
^ilvcry  beauty  of  the  twilight  liad  tempted  the  rest  out  on  the 
lawn.  Lady  Cecil  sat  in  her  rustic  chair,  humming  an  opera 
air,  and  watching  with  pensive,  dreamy  eyes  the  moon  lift  its 
silver  sickle  over  the  far-off  hills.  And  Lady  Dangerfield  and 
Rose  O' Donnell  sat  chatting  of  feminine  fashions  and  the  last 
sweet  thing  in  bonnets. 

The  gentlemen  joined  them — that  is,  with  the  exception  of 
the  Cornish  baronet.  Music  was  his  passion,  and  then  Miss 
Herncastle  had  looked  up  with  a  telling  glance  and  smile,  and 
some  slight  remark  as  he  went  by — slight,  but  sufficient  to 
draw  him  to  her  side,  and  hold  him  there.  The  earl  lingered 
also,  but  afar  off,  and  buried  in  the  downy  depths  of  a  puffy 
silken  chair,  let  himself  be  gently  lulled  to  sleep.  Major  Frank- 
land,  as  a  matter  of  course,  joined  Sir  Peter's  wife,  and  Sir 
Peter,  with  a  sheet  of  white  paper,  and  some  corks,  on  which 
moths  were  impaled,  and  a  net,  went  in  search  of  glow-worms. 
And  Captain  O' Donnell  tlung  his  six  feet  of  manhood  full 
length  on  the  velvet  sward  at  the  feet  of  the  earl's  daughter, 
the  delicious  sea-scented  evening  wind  lifting  his  brown  hair, 
and  gazed  serenely  up  at  the  star-studded  sky. 

"  Neat  thing — very  neat  thing,  Lady  Cecil,  in  the  way  of 
moonrise.  How  Christian-like,  how  gentle,  how  calm,  how 
happy  a  man  feels  after  dinner  !  Ah,  if  life  could  be  *  always 
afternorn,'  and  such  turf  as  this,  and  such  a  sky  as  that,  and 
one  might  lie  at  Beauty's  feet,  and — smoke  !  Smoking  is  use- 
ful among  flowers,  too — kills  the  aphides  and  all  that,  and  if 
I^ady  Cecil  will  permit — " 

"  Lady  Cecil  permits,"  Lady  Cecil  said,  laughing ;  "produce 
man's  best  comforter,  Captain  O' Donnell ;  light  up,  and  kill 
the  aphides." 

Captain  O' Donnell  obeyed;  he  produced  a  cigar  case,  se- 
lected carefully  a  weed,  ht  up,  and  fumigated. 

"This  is  peace — this  is  bliss;  why,  oh  why  need  it  ever 
end ;  Lady  Cecil,  what  are  you  reading  ? "  He  took  her 
book. 

"  Pretty,  I  know,  by  all  this  azure  and  gilding.  Ah.  to  be 
sure,  Owen  Meredith — always  Owen  Meredi;ii.  How  the  ladies 
do  worship  that  fellow.  Cupid's  darts,  broken  hearts,  silvery 
beams,  rippling  streams,  vows  here  and  there,  love  everywhere. 
Yes,  yes,  the  old  story,  despair,  broken  vows,  broken  hearts — 
it's  their  stock  fn  trade." 

"  And  of  course  such  things  as  broken  vows  and  broken 


344 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW, 


!( 


hearts  only  serve  to  string  a  poetaster's  rhymes.  We  all  know 
that  in  real  life  there  is  no  such  thing." 

*'Wc  know  nothing  of  the  sort.  Hearts  are  broken  every 
day,  and  their  owners  not  a  wit  the  worse  for  it  in  the  end. 
Better,  if  anything.  'The  heart  may  break,  yet  brokenly  live 
on,'  sighs  and  sings  the  most  lachrymose  of  all  poets,  and  I 
agree  with  him.  Live  on  unconnr.only  well,  and  if  the  pieces 
be  i)roi)crly  cementi^d,  grow  all  the  stronger  for  the  breakage." 

"Captain  O'Donnell  speaks  for  himself,  of  course;  and 
Irishmen's  hearts  are  the  most  elastic  organs  going.  Give 
me  my  book,  sir,  and  don't  be  so  horribly  cynical." 

"  Cynical,  am  1  ?  W^ell,  yes,  perhaps  I  am — cynicism  is,  I 
believe,  the  nineteenth  century  name  for  truth.  Hallo  !  what's 
all  this?  There's  my  fellow  Lanty,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand, 
and  what  has  he  done  to  Sir  Peter  ?  " 

"  Lanty — T^anty  Lafferty !  How  glad  I  am  to  see  T>anty. 
He  has  murdered  some  of  poor  Peter's  beetles  Pm  afraid — the 
slaughter  of  the  innocents  over  again.  See  how  excited  the 
baronet  is  over  it." 

It  was  Lanly,  and  T>anty  had  murdered  a  beetle.  He  had 
espied  it  crawling  slowly  along  Sir  Peter's  nice  white  sheet  of 
paper,  and  had  given  it  a  sudden  dexterous  whip  with  a  branch 
of  lilac  and — annihilated  it.  Sir  Peter  sprang  to  his  feet  with 
tlashing  eyes. 

"How  dare  you,  sir  !  how  dare  you  kill  my  specimen,  the 
fmcst  I  have  found  this  summer  ?  How  dare  you  do  it,  you 
muddle-headed  L  ishman  ?  " 

Lor  Lanty' s  nationality  was  patent  to  the  world.  Lanty 
pulled  off  his  hat  now,  and  made  the  baronet  a  politely  depre- 
ciating bow. 

"  How  dar  I  do  it  ?  Is  it  dar  to  kill  a  dirthy  cockroach  ? 
Shure  yer  honor's  joking!  Faith  I  wish  I  had  a  shiUin'  for 
ivery  wan  av  thini  I've  killed  in  my  day  ;  it's  not  a  footboy  I'd 
be  this  minit.  Begorra  I  thought  I  was  doin'  ye  a  good  turn. 
Shure,  ye  seen  yerself,  it  was  creepin'  over  the  clane  paper,  a 
big,  black,  creepin'  divil  av  a  cockroach." 

"  Cockroach,  you  fool !  I  tell  you  it  was  a  specimen  of  the 
Blatta  Orientalis — the  finest  specimen  of  the  Blatta  Orie?ttalis 
'  I  ever  saw." 

"Oh,  Mother  o'  Moses!" 

"And  you  must  come  along,  you  thick-headed  numbskull, 
after  all  the  troiible  Pve  had  with  it,  and  kill  it.  And  only  two 
days  since  it  was  born,  you  blundering  bog-trotter  !  " 


l 


i 


,>•* 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW, 


345 


Give 


-    ' 


u 


\ 


Mr.  LafFe^rty's  expression  was  fine,  as  he  regarded  the 
smashed  cockroach  and  the  little  baronet  with  mingled  looks 
of  compassion  and  contempt. 

*'  Born,  is  it  ?  Thim  dhirty  little  bastes  !  Born  t  oh,  wirra  ! 
Maybe  it  was  christened,  too  !    Faix,  1  wudn't  wondher  at  all ! " 

With  which  L?nty  took  his  departure,  and  approaching  his 
mistress,  i)resente'.  his  letter  with  a  bow. 

"  Miss  Rose,  alana !  a  bit  av  a  letther  av  ye  plase.  An' 
meselfs  thinkin'  from  thim  postmaks  that  it's  from  the  ould 
munseer  himself,  in  New  Orleans  beyant." 

"  Lanty ! "  called  the  sweet,  clear  voice  of  Lady  Cecil, 
"  come  here,  and  tell  me  if  you  have  quite  forgotten  the  trouble- 
some mistress  of  Torryglen,  for  whom  you  performed  so  many 
innumerable  services  in  days  gone  by?  You  may  have  forgot- 
ten, and  grown  cynical  and  disagreeable — Hke  master  like  man 
— but  /have  not." 

She  held  out  her  white-ringed,  slim  hand,  and  Mr.  Lafferty 
touched  it  gingerly,  and  bowed  before  that  fair,  gracious,  smil- 
ing face,  his  own  beaming  with  pleasure. 

''  Forget  ye,  is  it?  Upon  me  conscience,  my  lady,  the  man 
or  woman  isn't  alive  that  cud  do  that  av  they  tried.  Long  life 
to  yer  lad}'slii]) !  It's  well  I  reminibv,r  your  beautiful  face,  and 
troth,  it's  more  and  more  beautiful  it  gets  every  day." 

"Draw  it  mild,  Lanty,"  Lanty's  master  said,  lazily;  "we  are 
not  permitted  to  speak  the  truth  to  ladies  about  their  looks, 
when,  as  in  the  present  case,  the  simple  truth  sounds  like  gross 
flattery.  You  may  go  now  ;  and  for  the  future,  my  good  fellow, 
let  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield's  black  beetles  alone." 

Mr.  Lafferty  departed  accordingly,  giving  the  beetle-hunting 
baronet  a  wide  berth,  as  ordered.  The  next  moment  Rose 
came  hurriedly  over  to  where  her  brother  lay,  still  lazily  smok- 
ing and  star-gazing,  her  open  letter  in  her  hand. 

"News  from  New  Orleans,  Redmond,  a  letter  from  grand- 
_  papa.     ALadame  de  Lansac  is  very  ill." 

The  twilight  music,  floating  so  softly,  so  sweetly  out  into  the 

silvery  gloaming,  had  ceased  a  moment  before,  and  the  two 

figures  at  the  piano  approached  the  open  window,  nearest  I^ady 

Cecil  and  the  chasseur.     Miss  Herncastle  had  paused  a  second 

^  before  joining  the  lawn  party,  something  in  the  starry  moonlit 

loveliness  of  the  fair  English  landscape  stirring  her  heart  with  a 

•   throb  of  exquisite  remembrance  and  pain.    Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 

— grave,  somber — by  her  side,  was  very  silent  too.     Hoiv  well 

.  he  liked  to  be  here,  he  alone  knew  ;  and  yet  his  place  was  at 

15* 


146 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN'  HOLLOW, 


\m  'I 


the  feet  of  yonder  fair,  proud  peer's  daughter,  thrice  as  lovely, 
thrice  as  sweet,  as  this  dark  daughter  of  the  earth,  the  spell  of 
whose  sorcery  had  fallen  u[)on  him.  So  standing,  dead  silent 
both,  they  heard  the  words  of  Rose  O'Donnell. 

"Madame  de  Lansac!" — it  was  Redmond  O'Donnell  who 
spoke,  removing  his  cigar  and  looking  up — "ill  is  she?  I 
thought  that  handsome  Creole  was  never  ill.  Nothing  serious,  I 
hope?" 

"  It  is  serious — at  least  grandpapa  say  s  so.  Perhaps  his  fears 
exaggerate  the  danger.     She  is  ill  of  yellow  fever." 

"  Ah  !  I  should  have  thought  she  was  pretty  well  acclimated 
by  this  time.  And  our  infant  uncle,  Rose — how  is  he  ?  Lady 
Cecil,  it  is  not  given  to  every  man  of  eight-and-twenty  to  i)os- 
scss  an  uncle  four  years  old.  Such  is  my  happy  fortune.  How 
is  the  Signor  Claude  ?  " 

"  Little  Claude  is  well,"  his  sister  answered.  "  Poor  madame 
— and  I  liked  her  so  much.  Here  is  what  grandpapa  says : 
*  Dear  Marie,  if  there  is  any  change  for  the  worse  1  shall  tele- 
graph over  at  once,  and  I  shall  expect  Redmond  to  send  or 
fetch  you  out  again.  Claude  has  pined  to  a  shadow,  and  calls 
for  Marie  night  and  day.'  So  you  see,  Redmond,  it  may  end 
in  our  returning  after  all.  Still,  I  hope  there  may  be  no  neces- 
sity." 

Miss  O'Donnell  folded  up  her  letter  and  walked  away. 
Lady  Cecil  looked  inquiringly  at  her  companion. 

"  Marie  ?  "  she  said.  "  Your  sister's  name  is  Rose,  Cap- 
tain O'Donnell,  is  it  not?" 

"Rose,  yes  ;  Rose  Marie — called  after  her  jiaternal  and  ma- 
ternal grandmothers.  Our  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman — I 
think  1  told  you  the  family  pedigree  once  before,  didn't  I  ? — 
and  our  grandfather  is  M.  De  Lansac,  of  Menadarva.  When 
Rose  went  out  there,  to  be  brought  up  as  her  grandfiither's 
heiress  and  all  that,  the  old  French  grandpere  changed, 
without  troubling  Congress  in  the  matter,  the  obnoxious  Celtic 
cognomen  of  O'Donnell  for  the  Gallic  i)atronymic  of  De  Lan- 
sac. In  other  words,  Rose  O'Donnell  left  Ireland,  and  twelve 
hours  after  her  arrival  in  the  Crescent  City  became  Marie  De 
Lansac." 

There  was  a  faint  exclamation — it  came  from  the  open  win- 
dow. The  speaker  and  Lady  Cecil  both  looked  up,  and  sa  v 
that  pretty  tableau — the  Cornish  baronet  and  the  nursery  gover- 
ness. 


\ 


^ 


■f 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW. 


347 


as  lovely, 
le  spell  of 
lead  silent 

nnell  who 
she  ?  I 
serious,  I 

IS  his  fears 

cclimated 
;  ?  T^ady 
ty  to  i)os- 
ne.    How 

r  madame 
ipa  says : 
shall  tele- 

0  send  or 
and  calls 
may  end 

no  neces- 

ed  away, 
ose,  Cap- 

1  and  ma- 
oman — I 
In't  I?— 
.  When 
idfather's 
changed, 
us  Celtic 
De  Lan- 

id  twelve 
^larie  De 

ipen  win- 
and  sa  v 
ry  govcr- 


f 


% 


'I 


"You  arc  ill,  Miss  ITerncastle,"  Sir  Arthur  said.  "The 
night  air,  the  falling  dew — " 

He  stopped.  No,  my  T.ady  Cecil  I  Lovely,  gracious,  high- 
born as  you  are,  there  never  came  for  you  mto  those  calm, 
blue  eyes  the  look  that  glows  in  them  now  for  your  cousin's 
silent,  somber  governess.  He  stopped  and  looked  at  her.  It 
was  not  that  she  had  grown  pale,  for  she  was  ever  that,  fixedly 
jiale,  but  a  sort  of  ashen  gray  shadow  had  crept  up  over  brow 
and  chin,  like  a  waxen  mask.  For  one  instant  her  lips  parted, 
her  eyes  dilated,  then,  as  if  by  magic,  all  signs  of  change  disap- 
peared. Miss  Herncastle  was  herself  again,  smiling  upon  her 
startled  companion  with  her  face  of  marble  calm. 

"  A  neuralgic  twinge,  Sir  Arthur."  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
forehead.  *'  1  am  subject  to  them.  No — no.  you  are  very 
kind,  but  there  is  no  need  to  look  concerned.  I  am  quite  used 
to  it,  and  it  only  means  I  have  taken  a  slight  cold." 

"  And  we  stood  here  in  a  draught  of  night  air.  Shall  I  close 
the  window.  Miss  Herncastle  ?  " 

"  And  shut  out  this  sweet  evening  wind,  with  the  scent  of  the 
sea  and  the  roses  ?  No,  Sir  Arthur  ;  I  may  not  be  very  senti- 
mental or  romantic — my  days  for  all  that  are  past — but  I  think 
a  more  practical  person  than  myself  might  brave  a  cold  in  the 
head  and  a  twinge  of  tic  doloiircux,  for  such  a  breeze  and  such 
a  prospect  as  this." 

"  At  least,  then,  permit  me  to  get  you  a  shawl." 

He  left  her  before  she  could  expostulate.  She  caught  her 
breath  for  a  moment — hard,  then  leaned  forward  and  listened 
to  the  low-spoken  words  of  Lady  Cecil. 

"  Your  grandfather's  heiress,"  she  was  repeating,  interestedly. 
"  Ah  !  yes,  I  remember,  you  told  me  that  also  once  before." 

"Did  1?  I'll  tell  you  the  sequel  now,  if  you  like,"  the 
Chasseur  d'Afrique  said.  "There  is  many  a  slip,  you  know, 
and  old  Frenchmen  sometimes  have  youthful  hearts.  M.  De 
Lansac  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  got  married,  six  years  ago 
— Master  Claude  is  four  years  old  now,  the  finest  little  fellow 
from  here  to  New  Orleans,  the  heir  of  Menadarva,  and  die  De 
Lansac  millions.  After  her  grandfather's  marriage — I  don't 
know  how  it  was  either — she  and  n.adame  always  seemed  ex- 
cellent friends,  but  Marie  fell  into  low  spirits  and  ill  health, 
pined  for  the  green  hills  of  Ulster,  and  the  feudal  splendor  of 
Castle  O'Donneli — perhaps  you  remember  that  venerable  pile. 
Lady  Cecil — and  wrote  me  to  come  and  fetch  her  home.  Her 
granvlfather  did  not  wish  it.     I  did  not  wish  it.    I  could  give 


348 


T/IE  MVSTF.RV  OF  BRACK-EN  HOLLO W. 


her  no  home  ociual  in  any  way  to  that  she  wished  to  leave  ;  but 
when  a  woman  will,  .she  will,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Marie  I)e 
I.ansac,  like  Marianne  in  the  Moated  Orange,  was  'aweary, 
aweary.'  'I'hc  result  of  many  letters,  anil  nuieh  feminine  logic, 
was,  that  1  obtained  six  months'  leave  of  absence,  sailed  liitf 
briny  seas  and — Finis." 

"Not  Finis,  Capuiin  O'Donnell ;  there  is  still  a  sui)plement. 
How  is  it  you  chanced  to  appear  before  us  so  suddenly  here  ?  " 

"Ask  Rose,"  Captain  O'Donnell  answered.  "1  never  pre- 
tend to  fathom  the  motives  that  sway  the  feminine  intellect. 
She  wanted  to  come  to  London — we  came  to  London.  She 
wanted  to  come  to  Castleford,  Sussex — we  came  to  Castleford, 
Sussex.  //7/j',  I  don't  know,  and  1  am  not  sure  that  I  have 
any  curiosity  on  the  subject.  Probably  Rose  knows,  just  as 
probably  though  she  does  not.  As  well  Sussex  as  anywhere 
else,  I  received  and  obeyed  orders.  And  " — Cai)tain  O'Don- 
nell paused  a  moment  and  glanced  up  at  the  fair,  starry  face  on 
which  ihc  cold  moonbeams  shone — "and  1  can  truly  say  I 
don't  regret  the  coming." 

He  flung  away  his  cigar  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  Lady  Dan- 
gerfield,  with  her  major,  approached  at  the  moment. 

"  Queeiiie,  are  you  aware  the  dew  is  falling,  and  that  night 
air  is  shocking  for  the  comi)lexion?  A  little  moonlight  is  very 
nice,  but  enough  is  enough,  I  judge.  Come  into  the  house ; 
we  are  going  to  have  loo  and  music." 

She  swept  toward  the  open  windows,  her  trained  dress  brush- 
ing the  dew  off  the  wet  grass,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  two 
tall,  dusk,  statuesque  figures  there  full  in  the  moonlight.  And 
over  my  lady's  face  an  angry  frown  swept,  and  from  my  lady's 
eyes  a  tlash  of  ha'ighty  displeasure  shot. 

"  You  here  still,  Miss  Herncastle?"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of 
verjuice.  "  I  imagined  when  the  music  ceased  that  you  had 
gone  to  your  room.  Are  you  aware  whether  Pansy  and  Pearl 
have  gone  to  bed  ?  Be  kind  enough  to  go  at  once  and  ascer- 
tain." 

"And  remain  when  you  go,"  the  frown  that  concluded  the 
command  said, 

She  swept  by  them,  her  shining  laces  wafting  a  cloud  of 
millelleurs  before  and  behind  her,  and  Major  FVankland,  with 
a  knowing  half-smile  on  his  lips,  stalked  after  like  the  statue  of 
the  commander. 

Miss  Herncastle  fell  back — one  appealing,  deprecating,  wist- 
ful look  she  cast  upon  Sir  Arthur. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW, 


349 


"Good  .light,"  she  sighed,  rather  dian  said,  and  was  gone. 

i^ady  Daiigerfield  was  wise  in  her  generation,  but  she  had 
made  a  mistake  to-night.  A  siuUlen  dark  anger  had  swept  into 
the  baronet's  eyes,  a  Ihish  of  intolerable  anger  mounted  to  his 
brow.  The  lady  he  "delighted  to  honor  "  had  been  insulted, 
had  been  ordered  from  his  presi'nce  and  out  of  his  room  be- 
cause— he  understood  v/ell  enough-  because  of  him.  His  face 
changed,  so  darkly,  so  sternly,  so  angrily,  that  you  saw  how 
terrible  this  man,  usually  so  calm  and  impassive,  could  be  in 
wrath. 

The  rest  of  the  party  entered  by  the  other  windows.  The 
lamps  were  lit,  and  Lady  Dangcrfield's  voice  came  shrilly  sum- 
moning the  baronet  to  loo. 

"We  are  four — Major  Frankland,  Miss  O'Donnell,  Captain 
O'Donnell,  and  myself.  We  want  you,  Sir  Arthur,  to  make  up 
our  table." 

"  Your  ladysti^:  will  hold  ma  excused.  I  have  no  wish  for 
cards  to-night." 

The  iced  stateliness  of  that  tone  no  wor ' ;  of  mine  can  lell. 

Sir  Arthur  left  his  window,  looking  uni.  .erably  grim  and 
nwful,  strode  down  the  long  room,  ilung  himself  inti)  a  chair, 
took  ui)  a  photograph  album  and  immersed  himself  instantly 
fathoms  deep  in  art. 

Lady  Cecil  Clive,  seated  ■:■'■  the  piano  in  the  dim  distance, 
heard,  saw,  and  smiled.  My  lady's  stare  of  angry  amaze.  Sir 
Arthur's  grimly,  sulky  face  were  irresistible.  As  she  glanced 
across  the  drawing-room,  she  encountered  another  pair  of  laugh- 
ing eyes,  that  met  and  answered  her  own.  Very  handsome, 
very  bright,  very  bold,  blue  eyes  they  were,  in  the  head  of  Le 
Beau  Cliasseur.  What  rapport  was  th2re  between  these  two  ? 
Without  speaking  a  word,  they  understood  each  other  thor- 
oughly. 

Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  might  wrap  himself  uj)  in  his  dignity  as 
in  a  mantle,  and  sulk  to  his  heart's  content ;  Lady  Cecil  might 
hold  herself  alooi',  and  play  dreamy,  sweet  sonatas  and  German 
waltzes,  looking  like  a  modern  Saint  Cecilia  ;  the  Earl  of  Riiy;-- 
land  might  still  slumber  in  that  peaceful  way  which  a  uiiet 
conscience  and  a  sound  digestion  give;  Sir  Peter  migli  ..n- 
tomb  himself  in  his  study  or  make  his  nightly  pilgrimage  to 
Castleford — but  the  loo  party  were  the  merriest  party  imagin- 
able. 

Miss  Herncastle  appeared  no  more,  of  course  ;  Lady  Cecii 
played  on  and  on — Sir  Arthur  gazed  and  gazed  at  his  pictures, 


3S0 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW. 


M 


and  never  approaclied  the  piano.  He  had  got  hold  of  a  pict- 
ure— Joan  of  Arc  before  her  judges,  and  his  eyes  never  left  it. 
The  face  was  strangely  like  that  of  Miss  Herncastle — the 
expression  of  the  great  grave  eyes,  the  compression  of  the  sen- 
sitive mouth,  the  turn  of  the  brow,  the  sha|)e  of  the  chin.  And 
that  night  when  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  went  up  to  his  room,  he 
carried  Joan  of  Arc  with  him. 

It  wanted  just  a  (luarter  of  twelve  when  Redmond  O'Don- 
nell  left  Scarswood  Park,  and  took  his  way  on  foot  to  the  town, 
lie  had  been  offered  a  horse,  he  had  been  offered  a  bed,  and 
had  declined  both.  To  walk  on  such  a  night  was  a  luxury. 
]  [e  lit  a  Manilla,  and  went  over  the  moonlit  road  with  his  long 
cavalryman's  stride.  It  was  a  perfect  night,  the  sky  small- 
blue,  the  stars  golden  and  glorious,  the  moon  sailing  up  serene 
in  their  shiny  midst.  Long  shadows  of  tall  trees  lay  black 
across  the  road,  the  hedge-rows  in  full  blossom  made  the  night 
air  odorousy  and,  far  or  near,  no  living  thing  was  to  be  seen. 

Far  or  near!  Redmond  O'Donnell  pulled  up  suddenly  in 
his  swinging  i>ace,  and  looked  away  afield.  His  sight  was  of 
eagle  keenness.  What  dark  moving  figure  was  that  yonder, 
crossing  a  stile,  and  vanishing  amid  the  tall  gorse?  It  was  a 
woman — more,  it  was  familiar  even  at  that  distance. 

In  a  moment  his  resolution  was  taken.  What  woman  was 
this  out  for  a  midnicrht  ramble  ?  She  nuist  have  come  straight 
from  Scarswood,  there  was  no  other  habitation  near.  Captain 
O'Donnell  set  his  lips,  flung  away  his  cigar  among  the  fern  and 
grasses,  vaulted  like  a  boy  over  the  hedge,  and  in  a  moment 
was  in  full  pursuit. 

The  fiirure  that  had  vanished  in  the  shadows  of  the  waving 
gorse,  reappeared  in  the  broad  moonlit  field.  A  woman — no 
doubt  about  that  now — a  tall  woman,  walking  swiftly,  lightly, 
gracefully,  as  only  young  women  ever  walk.  That  stately 
stature,  that  jioise  of  the  head  and  shoulders,  surely  all  were 
familiar.  And  a  quarter  past  twelve,  alone  and  in  haste. 
What  mystery  was  here  ? 

"  Some  instinct  told  me  six  hours  ago,  when  I  recognized 
her  first,  that  something  was  wrong  ;  I  am  convinced  of  it  now. 
Something  is  wrong.  \Vhat  brings  her  here  ? — of  all  people  in 
the  world,  and  in  the  character  of  a  nursery  governess.  And 
where  is  she  going  at  this  unearthly  hour  of  night  ?" 

Still  she  went  on — still  the  unseen  pursuer  followed  on  her 
track.  She  never  looked  back  ;  straight,  swift,  as  one  who  has 
some  fixed  end  in  view,  she  went  on ;  and  still  steady  and  re« 


'> 


. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BRACKEN  HOLLOW, 


351 


of  a  pict- 
'^er  left  it. 
istle — the 
if  the  sen- 
ill.  And 
room,  he 

1  O'Don- 
the  town, 
bed,  and 
a  hixury. 
1  his  long 
ky  small- 
ip  serene 
ay  black 
the  night 
seen, 
ddeniy  in 
It  was  of 
:  yonder, 
It  was  a 

)nian  was 
i  straight 

Captain 
fern  and 

moment 

e  waving 
man — no 
^  lightly, 
t  stately 
all  were 
n   haste. 

cognized 
)f  it  now. 
people  in 
>s.     And 

d  on  her 

who  has 

I  and  re- 


. 


lentless,  determined  and  s^ern,  Redmond  O'Donnell  followed 
in  her  track. 

Her  destination  was  Bracken  Hollow.  It  came  upon  him, 
seen  for  the  first  time,  black  and  grim,  buried  among  its  gloomy 
trees — lonely  and  deserted.  No  lights  gleamed  anywhere 
about  it ;  its  shutters  were  all  closed — unutterably  eerie  and 
desolate  in  the  v.hite  shimmer  of  the  moon.  But  the  noctur- 
nal visitor  opened  the  grim  wooden  gate  with  a  key  she  carried, 
relocked  it,  and  for  the  first  time  paused  to  look  back.  She 
saw  no  one — the  trees,  and  the  shades,  and  the  distance  hid 
the  pursuer ;  only  the  silver  shine  of  the  stars  and  moon,  the 
boundless  blue  of  sky,  the  spreading  green  of  earth,  and  the 
soft  night  wind  whispering  over  all.  She  turned  from  the  gate, 
hurried  up  the  grass-grown  path,  and  vanished  in  the  inky 
gloom  of  the  porch. 

Redmond  O'Donnell  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
and  approached  the  gruesome  dwelling.  He  paused  at  the 
wooden  gate,  which  barred  his  farther  advance,  and  gazed  up 
at  the  black  forbidding  front.  In  his  rambles  over  the  neigh- 
borhood he  had  never  come  upon  this  out-of-the-way  place — it 
lay  in  a  spot  so  remote,  so  unfrequented,  that  few  ever  did 
come  upon  it  by  chance.  And  those  who  knew  it  gave  it  a 
wide  berth,  for  it  bore  the  ghastly  reputation  of  a  haunted 
house. 

He  stood,  his  folded  arms  resting  on  the  gate,  tall  sycamores 
and  firs  burying  him  in  their  deepest  gloom,  and  watched  and 
waited  for — he  hardly  knew  what.  Certainly  not  for  what  he 
heard — a  long,  wailing  cry  that  came  suddenly  and  hideously 
from  the  upper  part  of  the  house. 

He  started  up.  So  blood-curdling,  so  unexpected  was  it, 
that  for  one  moment  his  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  It  was 
followed  by  another,  wild,  agonized — then  dead  silence  fell. 

Physically  and  morally  Redmond  O'Donnell  was  brave  to 
the  core,  and  had  given  many  and  strong  proofs  of  his  bravery  ; 
but  a  chill,  more  like  fear  than  anything  he  had  ever  experi- 
enced, fell  upon  him  now.  What  hideous  thing  was  this  ?  Was 
murder  being  done  in  this  spectral  house?  It  looked  a  fit 
l)lace  for  a  murder — all  darkness,  all  silence,  all  desolation. 
The  unearthly  cry  was  the  same  that  once  before  had  terrified 
Lady  Cecil,  but  of  that  circumstance  he  knew  nothing.  What 
deed  of  evil  was  going  on  within  these  dark  walls?  Should  he 
force  an  entrance  and  see?  Would  that  dreadful  cr\'  be  re- 
pealed ?     He  paused  and  listened — five,  ten,  fifteen  niinuteSi 


i(i 


352 


THE  MYSTERY   OF  BRACKEN  HOLLO IV. 


\  « 


No,  cead  silence  reigned.  Only  the  flutter  of  the  leaves,  and 
the  chirp  of  some  bird  in  its  nest,  the  soft  rustle  of  the  trees, 
the  faint  soughing  of  the  wind — the  "voices"  of  the  night — 
nothing  more. 

What  ought  he  do  ?  While  he  still  stood  there  irresolute, 
lost  in  wondei  and  a  sort  of  awe,  the  porch  door  opened,  and 
the  mysterious  Knly  he  had  followed  appeared.  A  second  fig- 
ure, the  bent  fig  u-e  of  a  very  old  woman,  catne  after.  The 
first  was  speaking. 

"  No,  no,  Hannah  ;  you  shall  not  come.  Afraid  !  What 
nonsense  1  The  time  for  me  to  fear  anything  earthly  is  past. 
Nothing  living  or  dead  will  harm  me.  I  will  reach  Scarswood 
in  less  tiian  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  get  in  as  I  got  out,  in 
spite  of  all  Sir  Peter's  chains  and  locks,  and  to-morrow  be  once 
more  my  lady's  staid  preceptress  of  youth.  Hannah,  Hannah, 
what  a  life  it  is '  Go  back ;  try  to  keep  everything  quiet ; 
don't  let  these  ghastly  shrieks  be  repeated  if  you  can  help  it. 
How  fortunate  Bracken  Hollow  is  thought  to  be  haunted,  and 
no  one  ever  comes  here  by  night  or  day  ! " 

"We  had  a  narrow  escape  not  long  ago,  for  all  that.  It  was 
one  of  the  bad  days,  and  the  lady  and  gentleman  heard.  I  put 
them  off,  but  if  may  happen  again,  and  it  will.  It  can't  go  on 
forever." 

"Nothing  goes  on  forever;  1  don't  want  it  to  go  on  forever. 
Afy  time  is  drawing  near ;  little  by  little  the  light  is  breaking, 
and  my  day  is  coming.  Until  it  does,  keep  quiet ;  use  the 
drug  if  there's  too  much  noise.  I  will  return  as  speedily  as 
possible.     Now,  good-night." 

She  ran  down  the  steps,  walked  with  her  firm,  resolute,  fear- 
less tread,  down  the  path,  and,  as  before,  lingered  a  second  or 
two  at  the  gate. 

'i'he  old  woman  had  gone  back  to  the  house,  and  the  tall, 
dark  figure  under  the"  firs  she  did  not  see.  She  drew  out  her 
watch  and  looked  at  it  by  the  ligh*"  of  the  moon. 

"  Half  i)ast  one  ! "  she  murmured.  "  I  had  not  thought  it  so 
late.  It  will  be  a  quarter  past  two,  then,  before  I  reach  Scars- 
wood." 

"And  a  very  late  hour  for  Miss  Ilerncastle  to  be  out 
alone  I " 

Obeying  an  impulse  he  ''ould  not  resist,  the  chasseur 
emerged  from  the  tree-shadows  and  stood  before  her. 

"\Vith  her  permission  I  will  see  her  safely  back." 

And  then,  with  the  bright  light  of  the  moon  upon  his  face, 


't 


\ 


UNDER   THE  KING'S  OAK. 


353 


Redmond  O'Donnell  removed  his  hat  and  bowed  to  Miss 
Herncastle. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


UNDER  THE    KING'S   OAK. 


HE  did  not  scream,  she  did  not  even  start.  There 
must  have  been  brave  blood  in  the  governess'  veins. 
She  stood  there  stock  still,  and  faced  him  ;  but  in  the 
moonlight  that  gray  pallor  came  over  the  resolute 
face,  and  ihe  great  gray  eyes  dilated  with  something  the  look 
of  a  hunted  stag.  So  for  an  instant  they  stood  silent,  face  to 
face,  he  with  the  brilliant,  slanting  moonbeams  full  on  his 
dark,  handsome,  uncovered  head,  and  his  piercing,  blue  eyes 
pitilessly  fixed  on  her  stony  face.  Then  the  spell  broke  ;  she 
drew  one  long  breath,  the  light  came  back  to  her  eyes,  the 
natural  hue  to  her  face,  and  she  nerved  herself  to  meet  and 
dare  the  worst.  She  was  one  of  those  exceptional  women  who 
possess  courage,  that  rises  to  battle  back  in  the  hour  of  danger. 
She  opened  the  gate  and  spoke. 

"Captain  Redmond  O'Donnell,"  she  said  slowly,  "it  \% you, 
I  breathe  again.  For  one  moment  1  absolutely  took  you  for 
a  ghost.     My  nerves  are  good,  but  you  gave  them  a  shock." 

"Yes,"  Captain  O'Donnell  dryly  answered.  "I  think  your 
nerves  are  good.  Miss  Herncastle.  There  are  not  many  young 
ladies — not  many  strong-minded  governesses  even — who  would 
fancy  the  I'jng,  lonely  walk  between  Scarswood  and  this  place, 
between  die  ghostly  hours  of  twelve  and  two.  You  are  going 
back  ?  As  1  said  before,  with  your  permission,  I  will  accom- 
pany you.  Under  existing  circumstances  it  becomes  my  duty 
to  see  you  safely  home." 

She  smiled,  came  out,  rclockod  the  gate,  put  the  key  in  hei 
pocket,  drew  the  black  mantle  she  wore  closely  about  her  and 
walked  on. 

"Your  duty?"  she  repeated,  still  with  that  smile.  "Duty 
is  a  word  with  a  wide  signification  to  some  people.  For 
instance,  no  doubt  you  considered  it  your  duty  to  follow  me 
here  to-night — to  dog  my  steps,  like  the  hireling  assassin  of  an 


J; 


II 


354 


LWDER    THE  KING'S  OAK. 


Italian  novel — to  (it  is  not  a  pleasant  word,  but  the  word  I 
want)  play  the  spy." 

He  was  walking. by  iier  side.  He  was  lowering  the  pasture 
bars  of  a  field  as  she  spoke,  to  let  her  throiigl^ 

"Spy?"  he  said.  "Well,  yes,  I  confess  it  looks  like  it. 
Still  in  justice  to  myself  and  my  motives,  let  me  say  something 
more  than  simple  curiosity  has  been  at  work  to-night.  In  the 
usual  course  of  events,  though  it  might  surprise  me  to  see 
Lady  Dangerfield's  governess  taking  a  moonlight  ramble  after 
midnight,  it  certainly  would  not  induce  me  to  follow  her,  and 
play  the  spy,  as  you  term  it,  upon  her  actions.  But  another 
motive  than  curiosity  prompted  me  to-night — to  dog  your  foot- 
steps, to  wait  for  your  reappearance,  and  to  accompany  you 
home." 

"  Ah,  something  more  !  May  I  ask  what  it  is  that  induces 
Captain  O'Donnell  to  take  so  profound  an  interest  in  one  so 
far  beneath  him  as  Lady  Dangerfield's  governess  ?" 

The  grave  defiance  of  her  tone  and  manner,  the  daring 
mockery  of  her  glance,  told  him  she  was  prepared  to  deny 
everything — to  fight  every  inch  of  the  ground. 

"Well,  Miss  Herncastle,"  he  said,  "my  first  impression 
when  I  recognized  you— for  your  carriage,  your  walk,  your 
bearing,  are  not  to  be  mistaken  anywhere — " 

Miss  Herncastle  bowed  sarcastically,  as  to  a  compliment. 

"  My yS'Vj/' impression,  I  say,  was  that  you  were  walking  in 
your  sleep.  I  knew  a  somnambulist  in  Algeria  who  would 
walk  miles  every  night,  if  not  locked  up.  But  a  little  thought, 
and  a  few  minutes'  cautious  pursuit  convinced  me  that  you  were 
not  sleep-walking,  but  exceedingly  wide  awake  indeed/' 

Again  Miss  Herncastle  bowed — again  with  that  derisive,  de- 
fiant smile  on  her  face.  Her  whole  look,  manner,  and  tone 
were  entirely  unlike  Miss  Herncastle,  who  seemed  more  like 
an  animated  statue  than  a  living  woman  in  my  lady's  spacious 
rooms. 

"And  being  convinced  of  that,  Captain  O'Donnell's  first 
impulse — the  imi)ulse  of  all  brave  men  and  gallant  gentlemen, 
was — '  Miss  Herncastle  is  out  for  a  walk  by  herself,  either  on 
])rivate  business,  or  because  of  the  beauty  of  the  night,  or  be- 
cause she  cannot  sleep.  She  certainly  doesn't  want  me,  and  is 
quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself.  I  will  turn  back  at 
uiiCc  and  think  no  more  about  it.'  That  was,  1  know,  the  first 
thought  of  Captain  O'Donnell,  the  bravest  chasseur  in  all  the 
army  of  Africa.     May  I  ask  why  he  did  not  act  upon  it  ?" 


UNDER    THE  KINGS   OAK. 


3SS 


"Simply  for  this  reason — that  Captain  O'Donnell recognized 
Miss  Herncastle  at  six  o'clock  last  evening,  as  she  stood  upon 
the  lawn  reading  the  *  Battle  of  Fontenoy.'  " 

"Indeed!"  Aliss  Herncastle  responded,  with  supreme  in- 
difference ;  "recogni;:ed  me,  did  you  ?  1  am  rather  surprised 
at  that.  You  encountered  me  in  the  streets  of  Londou  prob- 
ably before  I  came  here  ?  " 

"  No,  madame,  I  encountered  you  in  the  streets  of  a  very 
different  city.  I  have  an  excellent  memory  for  faces,  and 
though  I  may  be  puzzled  to  place  them  for  .i  little,  I  generally 
come  out  right  in  the  end." 

"  I  congratulate  Captain  O'Donnell  on  his  excellent  mem- 
ory. And  my  face  puzzled  you  at  first,  did  it  ?  and  you  have 
come  out  all  right  in  the  end?" 

'•  Carry  your  memory  back  to  the  night  of  the  theatricals  at 
Scarswood,  the  night  of  my  first  appearing  there.  I  saw  you 
l)lay  Charlotte  Corday,  and  in  common  with  all  present,  your 
manner  of  enacting  it  electrified  me.  More,  I  knew  immedi- 
ately that  I  had  seen  you  before,  and  in  somewhat  similar  cir- 
cumstances. I  asked  who  you  were,  and  was  told  Lady  Dan- 
gerfield's  nursery  governess.  That  nonplussed  me — my  recol- 
lections of  you  were  altogether  unreconcilable  with  the  charac- 
ter of  children's  preceptress.  Then  came  last  evening,  and 
your  very  fine  rendering  of  the  Irish  poem.  And  again  I  was 
puzzled.  Your  face  was  perfectly  familiar — your  attitude,  your 
voice,  your  action — but  where  had  I  seen  you  ?  Do  you  re- 
member Lady  Cecil's  exclamation? — 'Miss  Herncastle,  you 
are  a  born  actress  ! '  Like  mist  before  the  sun,  the  haze  of  my 
mind  was  swept  away,  and  I  knew  you.  I  repeat  it,  Miss 
Herncastle — /  knew  you^ 

"You  knew  me?"  Miss  Herncasde  repeated,  but  her  eyes 
were  gleaming  strangely  now ;  "  well,  sir,  you  know  nothing 
to  my  discredit,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  your  discredit,  if  you  have  told  Lady  Danger- 
field  the  truth.  But  baronets'  wives  rarely  look  for  their 
children's  instructresses  in  the  person  of a  New  York  ac- 
tress." 

"Captain  O'Donnell!" 

"Miss  Herncastle  !" 

And  then  there  was  a  pause,  and  for  an  instant  how  horribly 
thick  and  fast  Miss  Herncastle's  heart  beat  only  Miss  Hern- 
castle ever  knew. 

"  1  don't  understand  you,"  she  said ;  but  in  spite  of  all  her 


35<5 


UNDER   THE  KING'S  OAK. 


"A  New  York 
I 


am  an  Eng- 


J  I! 


great  self-conimand  her  voice  sour  led  husky, 
actress.     1  never  was  in  New  York  in  my  life, 
lisliwonian,  born  and  bred." 

Jf  he  would  only  take  his  eyes  off  her  fiice,  she  thought  her 
defiant  spirit  v/ould  rise  again.  But  those  powerful  blue  eyes, 
keen  as  a  knife,  bright  as  steel,  seemed  to  pierce  her  very  soul, 
and  lead  all  its  falsehood  there. 

"  1  regret  Miss  Herncastle  takes  the  trouble  to  make  unnec- 
essary statements,"  he  said  coldly.  "An  Englishwoman  born 
and  bred.  I  believe  that.  But  as  surely  as  we  both  stand 
here,  I  sa^v  you  six  months  ago  on  a  New  York  stage — one  of 
the  most  popular  actresses  of  that  city." 

She  was  silent — her  lips  set  hard — that  hunted  look  in  her 
large  eyes. 

"The  play  was  '  Hamlet,'  "  pursued  the  pitiless  voice  of  the 
chasseur;  "and  the  great  trans-Atlantic  actor,  Edwin  Booth, 
l)layed  the  doleful  Prince  of  Denmark.  I  h?d  never  seen 
'  Hamlet,'  and  I  went  the  first  night  of  my  arrival  in  New  York. 
The  Ophelia  of  the  play  was  a  tall,  black-browed,  majestic 
woman,  who  acted  superbly,  and  who  looked  as  if  she  could 
take  care  of  herself;  but  then  all  American  women  have  that 
look.  At  least  she  was  very  far  from  one's  idea  of  poor  love- 
sick, song-singing,  weak-minded  Ophelia  ;  and  1  really  think 
she  took  the  cliaracter  better  than  any  actress  I  ever  saw  ;  but 
then  my  experience  has  been  limited.  Miss  Herncastle,  I 
don't  remember  the  name  of  that  actress  on  the  bills,  but  I 
certainly  have  the  honor  of  walking  by  her  side  to-night.  No," 
— he  lifted  his  hand  hastily,  "  I  beg  you  will  not  trouble  your- 
self to  deny  this.  What  good  will  it  do?  You  can't  convince 
me  though  you  denied  it  until  daylight.  I  know  1  speak  the 
truth." 

She  turned  to  him  with  sudden  impulse — sudden  passion  in 
her  face.  Ah  !  that  is  where  women  fail — where  men  have  the 
advantage  of  us.  The  strongest-minded  of  us  will  let  ourselves 
be  swayed  by  impulse,  and  all  the  vows  and  resolves  of  our 
life  swept  away  in  the  passion  of  a  moment.  She  turned  to 
him  with  a  swift,  impassioned  gesture  of  both  hands,  theatrical 
jierhaps,  but  real. 

"  Why  should  I  lie  to  you  !  You  are  a  man  of  honor,  a 
soldier,  and  a  gentleman — you  will  not  betray  me.  1  will  tell 
the  truth.  Captain  O'Donnell.  I  am  the  New  York  actress — 
1  am  the  Ophelia  you  beheld  six  months  ago." 

"  I  knew  it,"   he  answered  with  compo.sure.     "  I  saw  you 


UNDER    THE  KING'S  OAK, 


357 


many  nij;hts  in  succession.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  be  mis- 
taken. And  as  clever  and  popular  actresses  do  not  as  a  rule 
quit  the  stage,  and  the  brilliiuit,  well-i)aid,  well-dressed,  highly 
strung  existence  of  a  poi)ular  leading  lady,  and  merge  their 
bright  individuality  into  that  of  a  poorly  paid,  overtasked  drudge 
of  a  nursery  governess,  you  will  pardon  me,  I  think,  for  allow- 
ing my  suspicions  to  rise,  for  following  your  footsteps  to-night. 
I  said  to  myself,  this  actress,  whom  a  crowiled  Broadway  house 
applauded  to  the  echo,  nigiit  after  night,  has  some  motive — a 
sinister  one,  in  all  likelihood — in  quitting  her  profession  and 
coming  to  this  house  in  the  n'/e'cf  governess.  For,  of  course, 
a  governess  she  will  not  long  remain.  T,ady  Dangerfield  is  in 
utter  ignor  aice  of  her  antecedents—  nieves  whatever  story 
Mis'^  Herncastle  chooses  to  tell  her — tt  kes  her  recommenda- 
tions, forged  beyond  doubt,  for  autheniu  documents,  and  is 
being  duped  everyday.  I  speak  plainly,  yo'.i  see,  Miss  Hern- 
castle." 

*'  You  do,  indeed,"  Miss  Herncastle  answered  bitterly. 
"You  state  your  case  with  all  tlie  pitiless  grimness  and  truth  of 
the  stern  old  judge  on  the  bench,  summing  up  the  facts  that  are 
to  condemn  for  life  the  miserable  culprit  in  the  dock.  And 
after  all,"  she  (lung  up  her  hand,  her  eyes  flashing,  "  what  busi- 
ness is  it  of  yours  .?  Are  you  my  lady's  keeper  ?  Has  your 
own  fate  been  ordered  so  smooth'y  that  you  should  hunt  down 
to  ruin  a  poor  wretch  with  whom  life  has  gone  hard  ?  " 

Something  in  her  tone  moved  him — something  in  that  pas- 
sionate, savage,  hunted  look  of  her  eyes  touched  him,  he  hardly  ' 
knew  why. 

"  No,  God  knows,"  he  said  sadly,  "my  own  life  has  been  no 
pathway  of  roses.  I  am  the  last  man  on  earth  to  set  \\\>  in 
judgment  upon  my  struggling  fellow  mortal,  and  accuse  him. 
1  have  no  wish  to  hunt  you  down,  as  you  call  it.  This  night's 
work,  this  night's  discovery,  and  your  avowal,  shall  be  as  though 
they  had  never  been.  Whether  I  do  right  or  wrong  in  con- 
cealing the  truth  is  much  too  subtle  a  question  for  me — I  only 
know  1  will  conceal  it." 

She  held  out  her  hand  suddenly,  with  a  second  swift  impulse. 
"  For  that  much  at  least  I  thank  you.  Why  I  have  left  the 
stage,  why  I  have  come  here,  you  have  answered  to  your 
own  satisfaction.  Some  sinister  motive  must  be  at  the  bottom, 
of  course.  And  yet.  Captain  O'Donnell — and  yet — can  you 
imagine  no  belter,  no  higher,  no  more  worthy  motive  ?  The 
one   may  be  brilliant,  the   other  dull ;    one  well-paid,  well- 


358 


UNDER    THE  KING'S   OAK'. 


|ii'"] 


I  [••  II-  ■ 


dressed,  well-applauJed  ;  the  other  a  pittance — quaker  garb, 
and  the  obedience  of  a  servant ;  but  yet  die  dull  life  is  the  safe 
one — the  other  full  of  untold  dangers  and  tenii)tation." 

Ca|)tain  O'Donnell  smiled. 

"  I  grant  it.  Full  of  untold  dangers  and  temptation  to  fool- 
ish girls  and  frivolous  matrons — not  to  such  women  as  you.  In 
any  situation  in  life  30U  are  ([uite  capable  of  taking  excellent 
care  of  yourself,  Miss  Ilerncastle.  That  plea  has  not  even  the 
advantage  of  being  commonly  plausible.  What  your  motive 
may  be,  I  don't  know — it  is  your  own  business  and  in  no  way 
concerns  nie.  Unless,"  he  paused — "  unless,  Miss  Herncas- 
tle — "  he  said,  slowly. 

"Yes,  Captain  O'Donnell — unless — " 

"  Unless  I  liiul  trouble  of  any  kind  coming  of  it.  You  are 
doing  mischief  already — do  you  know  it  ?  You  have  frightened 
two  or  three  people  into  the  belief  that  you  are  a  ghost." 

Miss  Herncastle  laughed — not  a  very  natural-sounding  laugh. 

"Poor  little  Sir  Peter!  Is  it  my  fault,  Captain  O'Donnell, 
that  I  resemble  some  woman  he  has  known,  dead  and  in  her 
grave  ?  " 

"Perhaps  not ;  I  have  not  quite  made  up  my  mind  how  that 
is  yet.  Second  clause — "  he  gave  her  a  piercing  look ;  "  are 
you  aware  that  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  engaged — has  been 
engaged  for  years — to  Lady  Cecil  Clive  ?" 

'•  Ah,"  Miss  Herncastle  said,  scornfully,  "  no7v  we  tread  on 
delicate  ground.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  engaged  to  Lady 
Cecil  Clive,  and  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  has  shown  the  despised 
nursery  governess  the  simple  courtesy  of  a  gentleman  to  a  gen- 
tlewoman. For,  in  spite  of  the  New  York  acting  and  English 
teaching,  I  am  that,  sir !  He  has  kindly  talked  a  little  to  Miss 
Herncastle,  and  the  earl's  daughter  deigns  to  be  jealous,  with 
all  her  beauty,  and  birth,  and  breeding,  of  poor,  lowly,  plain  me. 
And  you.  Captain  O'Donnell — you  of  all  men — tell  me  of  it." 

"  And  why  not  I,  Miss  Herncastle  ?  " 

"  Because,"  she  burst  out,  fiercely,  passionately,  "  Lady  Cecil 
Clive  may  be  engaged  to  fifty  wealthy  baronets,  but — she  hnes 
yoit  !  Ah  !  you  feel  that !  "  She  laughed  in  a  wild,  reckless 
sort  of  way.  "She  loves  you,  the  soldier  of  fortune,  the  free 
comjianion,  and  will  give  Sir  Ardiur  her  hand  at  the  altar,  while 
her  heart  is  in  your  keeping  !  And  this  is  the  dainty,  the  s[iot- 
less,  the  proud  Lady  Cecil.  What  you  are  or  have  been  to  her 
in  the  past,  you  know  best ;  but — I  wonder  if  Sir  Arthur  does  ? 
He  is  a  faithful  friend  and  gallant  gentlemaa.     Don't  you  think, 


1 

it 


<^ 


% 


UNDER   THE  KING'S  OAK. 


3i)9 


er  garb, 
the  safe 


1  to  fool- 
>'ou.  In 
,'xcellent 
even  the 
•  motive 
1  no  way 
[ierncas- 


You  are 

ightened 

t." 

ig  langh. 

Donnf.'ll, 

id  in  her 


low  that 
V ;  "  are 
as  been 

road  on 
o  Lad)' 
espised 
o  a  gen- 
English 
to  Aliss 
us,  with 
ain  nie. 
of  it." 

y  Cecil 
he  lo'cs 
•ccklcss 
he  free 
r,  while 

iC   S[>(;t- 

\  to  her 
does  ? 
J  think, 


*4* 

i 


Captain  O'Donnell,  my  judge,  my  censor,  that  from  your  hands 
and  hers  he  deserves  !)elter  than  that  ?" 

Slie  had  struck  home.  The  tide  of  battle  hod  turned — vic- 
tory sat  perched  on  her  banner  now.  His  face  Hushed  deep 
r-  V  under  the  golden  bronze  of  an  Afric  sun,  then  grew  very 
V  te.  Miss  Herncastle,  womanlike,  pursued  her  advantage 
n.jicilessly. 

"  You  see  the  mote  in  your  brother's  eye,  but  how  about  the 
b-'am  in  your  own?  Most  men  like  to  think  the  heart  of  the 
woman  they  marry  has  held  no  former  lodger.  They  like  to 
think  so,  and  if  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  they  arc  duped,  if  they 
do  not  know  it,  what  does  it  matter  ?  My  Lady  Cecil  is  pure 
and  si)otless  as  mountain  snow,  is  she  not  ?  And  she  sells  her- 
self— it  is  my  turn  to  use  plain  words  now,  sir — sells  herself  for 
Sir  Arthur's  thirty  thousand  a  year.  She  is  the  soul  of  truth 
and  a  living  lie  to  him  every  day  of  her  life.  She  will  become 
his  wife,  and  her  heart  will  go  after  you  out  to  Algiers.  Yoius 
she  is — and  will  be — and  Sir  Arthur  trusts  her  and  you.  llah  ! 
Captain  O'Donnell,  is  there  one  true  woman  or  man  in  all  the 
world  wjde?  I  don't  say  Sir  Arthur  has  any  right  to  comi)lain 
— he  is  only  treated  as  the  larger  half  of  his  sex  are  treated  ; 
but  don't  )w/  call  him  to  order  if  he  chances  to  spoak  a  few 
kindly  words  tome.  We  are  at  the  park  ;  may  I  go  in  ?  I  am 
tired  to  death,  walking  and  talking.  Has  more  got  to  be  said, 
or  shall  we  cry  quits,  and  say  good-night?" 

"  How  will  you  get  in  ?  "  he  asked.  "  The  doors  and  windows 
seem  bolted  for  the  night." 

"  Doubly  bolted,  doubly  barred,"  Miss  Herncastle  replied, 
with  a  contem[)tuous  laugh,  "  to  keep  out  burglars  and  ghosts, 
the  two  bugbears  of  Sir  Peter's  life.  Nevertheless  I  will  get  in. 
Ciood-night,  Captain  O'Donnell."  She  held  out  her  hand.  "I 
would  rather  you  had  not  followed  me,  but  you  thought  you 
were  doing  your  duty,  and  I  do  not  blame  you.  Shall  wc^  cry 
quits,  or  shall  it  be  war  to  the  knife?" 

He  touched  the  ungloved  hand  she  extended  and  dropped  it 
coldly. 

"  It  shall  be  whatever  Miss  Herncastle  pleases.  Only  I  should 
advise  her  to  discontinue  those  noctu^'nal  rambles.  She  may 
get  followed  again,  and  by  some  one  less  discreet  even  than 
myself,  and  the  very  strange  cries  that  issue  from  that  ni}  steri- 
ous  dwelling  be  found  out." 

She  cauglu  her  breath ;  she  had  quite  forgotten  Bracken 
Hollow. 


I 


u 


360 


UNDER    THE   KINCPS  OAK. 


"  Yoii  heard—" 

**  1  hoard  three  very  unearthly  cries,  Miss  Ilerncastle.  I 
shall  inquire  to-morrow  who  lives  in  that  house. 

"  Do.  You  will  hear  it  is  an  old  woman,  a  very  old,  harm- 
less woman,  but  a  little,  just  a  little,  in  iier  dotage.  These 
moonlight  nights  aftect  her,  and  when  her  rheumatism  twinges 
come  on  she  cries  out  as  you  have  hcaril  her." 

He  smiled  as  he  listened. 

"  You  don't  believe  me  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  think  I  am 
telling  a  second  He." 

"  ^Iydear  Miss  Herncastle,"  the  chasseur  replied,  "we  never 
api)ly  that  forcible  and  impolite  word  to  a  lady.  And  now,  as 
you  seem  tired,  and  lest  poachers  and  game-keei)ers  should  see 
us,  I  think  we  had  better  part.  You  are  quite  sure  you  can 
get  in?" 

"Quite  sure.     Good-night,  Captain  O'Donnell." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  turned  at  once.  Miss  Herncastle  stood 
where  he  had  left  her,  following  the  tall,  gallant  figure  that 
crossed  the  moonlit  field  so  swiftly,  with  a  strange  expression  in 
her  eyes  and  on  her  lips.  Not  anger,  certainly  not  hatred,  what- 
ever it  might  be.  She  stood  there  until  he  was  out  of  sight, 
until  the  last  sound  of  rapid  footstei)s  on  the  distant  highroad 
died  away.  Then  she  turned,  entered  the  great  elm  avemie, 
and  disappeared. 


It  was  the  nc.\t  night  after  this  that  something  very  strange 
and  very  startling  occurred  to  Sir  Peter  Dangerheld. 

Beside  his  sunset  pilgrimage  to  that  remote  Castleford  cliun  h- 
yard,  the  Scarswood  baronet  made  other  pilgrimages  to  Castle- 
ford, by  no  means  so  harmless.  In  an  out-of-the-way  street  of 
the  town  there  stood  a  tall,  white  house,  set  in  a  garden  off  the 
highway,  and  looking  the  very  pictu.e  of  peace  and  prosperity. 
A  gentleman  named  Dubourg,  of  foreign  extraction,  and  his 
wife,  resided  there.  M.  Dubourg  was  a  most  agreeable  gentle- 
man, Madame  Dubourg  the  most  charming,  most  vivacious, 
and,  when  artistically  made  up  for  the  evening,  the  prettiest  of 
little  women.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the  charm  of  those 
agreeable  people's  society  that  so  many  officers  of  the  Castle- 
ford barracks,  and  so  many  of  the  dashing  young  country 
squires,  frequented  it.  Or,  perhaps — but  this  was  a  secret — 
)  erha[)S  it  was  owing  to  the  unlinnted  loo  and  lansquenet,  the 
ecarte  and  chicken-haxard  you  might  indulge  in  between  night- 
fall and  sunrise.     For  lights  burned  behind  those  closed  vene- 


\ 

4 


i 


I 


i 


UNDER    THE  KING'S  OAK, 


3<5i 


castle.     I 

)ld,  harm. 
:.     These 

II  twinges 


hink  I  am 

'  we  never 
(1  now,  as 

ihould  see 
e  you  can 


istle  stood 
'iguro  that 
nossion  in 
red,  what- 
:  of  sight, 
;  highroad 
11  avenue, 


)'  strange 

d  church- 
to  Castle- 
street  of 
en  off  the 
osperity. 
and  his 
)le  gentle- 
ivacious, 
ettiest  of 
of   those 
c  Castle- 
country 
secret — 
enet,  the 
^'u  night- 
jd  vene- 


I 


tians  tlie  short  sununcr  and  the  lonL":  winter  nights  through,  and 
men  sat  siK-nt  and  with  pale  faces  until  the  rosy  lances  of  sun- 
rise |)ierc(Ml  the  Minds,  and  the  fall  of  the  cards  and  the  rattle 
of  dice  were  the  only  sound  to  stir  the  silence.  Immense  sums 
were  staked,  little  fortunes  were  lost  and  won,  and  men  left 
hag'.jard  aiul  ghastly  in  the  gray  dawn,  with  the  coUl  dew  stand 
ing  on  their  faces,  or  rotle  home  llushcd,  excited,  richer  l»y 
thousands  of  pounds.  The  Castleford  police  ke|)t  their  eye  on 
this  peaceful  subin-ban  retreat  and  the  delightful  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Dubourg,  but  as  yet  no  raid  had  been  made. 

A  passion  for  gambling  had  ever  been  latent  in  the  Danger- 
field  blood.  In  the  days  of  his  i)overty  it  had  developeil  itself 
in  his  continual  buying  of  lottery  tickets  ;  in  the  days  of  his 
))rosperity,  at  the  gaming-table.  Insect-hunting  might  be  Iiis 
liobby — chicken  ha/.anl  was  his  passion.  Of  the  sums  he  lost 
and  won  there  I-ady  Dangerfield  knew  nothing  ;  //<r  apartments 
were  in  the  other  wing  of  Scarswood.  Cf  the  imearthly  hours 
of  his  return  home  no  one  knew  but  the  head  groom,  who  sat 
up  for  him  aiul  took  his  horse,  and  was  well  paid  for  his  silence 
and  his  service.  As  a  rule,  Sir  Peter's  losses  and  gains  were 
pretty  ecjual ;  he  was  an  adept  at  chicken-hazard,  and  no  more 
skilled  gamester  freciuented  the  place. 

On  the  night  then  following  Miss  llerncastle's  adventure,  Sir 
Peter  rode  gayly  homeward  at  a  much  earlier  hoiu"  than  usual, 
the  richer  by  six  hundred  pounds.  He  was  in  high  g(iod  spirits 
— ft)r  //////  ;  the  night  was  lovely — bright  as  day  and  twice  as 
beautiful.  In  his  elation  all  his  consiuutional  dread  of  ghosts, 
of  "black  sjiirits  and  white,  blue  spirits  and  gray,"  vanislicd, 
and  he  was  actually  trying  to  whistle  a  shrill  little  tune  as  he 
scrambled  along.  The  clocks  of  Castleford,  plainly  heard  in 
the  stillness,  were  striking  twelve  as  the  baronet  entered  his  own 
domain  and  rode  up  the  avenue. 

What  was  that  ? 

His  horse  had  shied  so  suddenly  as  nearly  to  throw  him  off. 
They  were  near  a  hu.,.,'  oak,  called  the  Ring's  Oak,  from  the 
legend  that  the  young  Pretender  had  once  taken  refuge  there 
from  his  pursuers.  Its  great  branches  cast  shadows  for  yards 
around.  And  slowly  out  o[  those  gloomy  shadows — a  figure 
came— . I  white  figure,  with  streaming  hair,  and  face  upturned  to 
the  starry  sky.  All  in  wiute— true  ghostly  garmenls — noiseless, 
slow,  it  glided  out  and  stood  full  h.  his  pathway. 

The  bright,  cold  light  of  the  moon  shone  full  upon  it,  and  he 
saw— the  dead  face  of  Katheriae  Dangerlield  ! 


»  .. 


362  "^^  ^^  '^    GLASS,   DAh'A'LY» 

Katheiiiie  Dangcifultl !  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  Who  should 
know  the  face  better  than  he  ?  as  he  iiseil  to  see  her  \ow^  aj^o 
in  her  white  dress  and  llowing  hair.  Katherine  i.'  ngerfield, 
with  a  face  of  stone  ui.'urneil  to  the  midnight  sky. 

lie  sat  fro/en  for  a  moment—  fro/en  with  a  horror  too  intense 
for  worils  or  cry.  77icn  tlie  startleil  hi)rsc  shied  again,  and  a 
shriek  rang  out  in  the  midnight  stilhiess,  those  who  heard  might 
never  forget.  The  horse  pUmged  madly  forward,  and  there 
was  tiie  sound  of  a  heavy  fall. 

The  groom,  half  asleep  at  his  post,  rushed  out ;  two  or  three 
dogs  barked  loudly  in  their  kennels.  The  groom  rushed  for- 
ward and  seized  the  horse,  (juivering  with  affright.  He  was 
riderless.  At  a  little  distance  lay  Sir  Peter,  face  downward,  on 
the  dewy  grass,  like  a  dead  man.  And  nothing  else  earthly  or 
unearthly  was  anywhere  to  be  seen. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

"AS    IN    A    GLASS,    DARKLY." 

HE  groom  echoed  his  master's  cry  as  he  stoojied  and 

lifted  him  up.      He  was  s  useless;  he  had  struck  his 

forehead  on  a  stone,  and  wa»  l)leeding  freely.     It  was  an 

awfully  ghastly  face  upon  which  the  moonlight  shone. 

The  double  alarm  had  been  heard,     in  live  minutes  another 

of  the  grooms,  sleeping  over  the  stable,  came  running  to  the 

spot. 

"  T'  maister  hurt,"  groom  number  one  explained ;  "  been 
flung  off  his  horse.  Ci'  us  a  hand  here,  my  lad,  and  help  us 
lift  him  ooj)  and  carry  him  into  house." 

They  bore  the  stark  and  bleeding  form  between  them,  found 
his  night-key  in  his  pocket,  opened  the  door  and  carried  him 
up  to  his  own  room.  One  or  two  of  the  servants  appeared — 
the  alarm  was  speeding  through  the  household. 

"  iiest  tell  my  lady,"  some  one  said;  "and,  Davis,  hadn't 
thee  better  go  to  Castlcford  for  a  surgeon  ?" 

Both  suggestions  were  acted  on  ;  my  lady  was  summoned, 
very  much  startled  and  very  peevish  at  being  disturbed  in  hef 
"  beauty  sleep." 


**AS  IN  A    GLASS,   DARKLY" 


3^3 


t.  Wlio  should 
ce  her  long  ago 
lie  i.'  ngcrficld, 
ky. 

)iior  too  intense 
.•(1  again,  and  a 
/ho  heard  might 
vaid,  and  there 

It ;  two  or  three 
join  rushed  for- 
fright.  He  was 
li  downward,  on 
;  else  earthly  or 


he  stooped  and 
;  had  struck  his 
ecly.  It  was  an 
oonlight  shone, 
linutes  another 
ruiniing  to  the 

)lained ;  "  been 
id,  and  help  us 

en  them,  found 
md  carried  him 
nts  appeared — 

,  Davis,  hadn't 

,as  summoned, 
lislurbed  in  hef 


"  And  what  could  she  do?"  she  fretfully  askrd.  "  Of  wh.it 
use  was  it  summoning  her  ?  " 

All  was  confusion,  servants  standing  nonplussed,  my  lady's 
only  emotion,  as  she  stood  in  her  Mowing  white  wrapper,  ga/ing 
with  nuich  disfavor  at  the  bleeding  face  and  motionless  figure, 
one  of  anger  at  being  routed  out.  The  groom  hatl  gone  Un  'he 
surgeon  ;  i)ending  the  surgeon's  arrival,  nothing  seemed  likely 
to  be  done.  In  the  midst  of  the  "  confusion  worse  confounded  " 
ap|)eared  upon  the  scene  Miss  Hcrncastle,  also  in  a  wrapper, 
alarmed  by  the  noise,  and  carrying  a  night-lamp  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Miss  Herncastle  !"  my  lady  exchximed,  "  perhaps  you 
may  know  what  to  do.  I  am  sure  I  don't,  and  it  was  most  in- 
considerate awakening  mc  in  this  manner,  when  my  nights  are 
so  broken,  and  with  my  shattered  nerves  rnd  all.  And  then 
the  sight  of  blood  always  makes  me  sick.  Perhaps  )ou  can  do 
something  for  Sir  Peter ;  he  has  had  a  fall  otT  his  horse,  and 
set-ms  to  be  stunned.  1  don't  believe  he  is  killed.  I  wish  you 
would  see,  and  if  it's  not  dangerous  Pll  go  back  to  bed."  My 
lady  shivered  in  the  chill  night  air ;  the  great  rooms  and  long 
corridors  of  Scarswood  were  draughty.  "  I  would  stay  with 
pleasure,  of  course,  if  there  was  any  real  danger,  or  if  Sir 
Peter  were  dying,  or  that  kind  of  thing,  but  I  kno7ii  he  is  not." 

"I  dare  say  you  would,"  more  than  one  of  the  servants  pres- 
ent thought,  as  they  listened  to  this  wifely  speech,  and  smiled 
furtively.  "  If  Sir  Peter  were  dying,  my  lady,  you  would  stay 
with  pl'^asure." 

Miss  Ilerncastle's  calm,  pale  face,  looking  more  marble-like 
than  ever  in  the  fitful  lamplight,  bent  over  the  rigid  little  baro- 
net. She  felt  his  pulse,  she  wijjed  away  the  blood  witli  a  wet 
sponge  i^nu  discovered  the  tritiing  nature  of  the  cut,  and 
turned  to  my  lady 

•'  Sir  Peter  is  in  a  fainting  fit,  I  think,  my  lady  ;  probably,  too, 
stuiuicd  by  the  rviock  of  his  fall.  The  wound  is  nothing,  a 
iiiere  scratch.  There  is  not  the  slightest  danger,  I  am  sure, 
and  not  the  slightest  necessity  for  your  remaining  here.  In 
yonr  delicate  .-.'ate  of  health  you  may  get  jour  death  of  cold." 
My  lady  had  never  been  sick  two  hours  in  her  whole  life. 
"  Permit  me  to  urge  you  to  retire,  Lady  Uangerlield.  /will 
remain  and  do  all  that  is  necessary." 

"  Very  well,  Miss  Herncastle,  I  believe  I  must.  I  fear  I 
shall  be  ill  as  it  is  after  the  shock  ;  my  ner  ous  system  feels 
completely  unstru -ig.  If  there  should  be  ai.y  danger  I  beg 
30U  will  send  mc  word  the  very  first  thing  in  tliC  morning." 


3*^4 


*'AS  /::  A    GLASS,    DARKLY.'* 


\ 
1. 

, 

y 

' 

H 

1 

1 

i 

1 

i 

1 

I 

■J  ' 

\ 

' 

j 


'  « 


\t  \ 


ill 


And  then  niy  lady,  willi  a  wrclchod  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, wended  her  way  haek  U)  bed,  and  Miss  Herncastle 
had  charge  of  the  lord  of  Scarnwood.  She  dismissed  all  the 
gaping  servants,  with  one  or  two  excejitions — the  housekeeper 
and  a  man — and  set  to  work  with  the  air  of  one  who  under- 
stood her  business.  She  bathed  his  face  and  temples  with  icc- 
Avater ;  she  sla[)ped  his  palms  ;  she  ap[)lied  sal  volatile  and  burnt 
feathers  to  his  nostrils;  and  presently  there  was  a  Hutter  of  the 
colorlebs  eyelashes,  a  tremor  all  over  the  body,  and  Sir  Peter's 
small,  near-sighted,  pale  blue  eyes  opened  and  fixed  on  Miss 
Herncastle. 

"  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  how  do  you  feel  now  ?"  the  soft,  sweet 
tones  of  that  most  soft,  sweet  voice  asked.  "  Better,  I  sincerely 
trust ! " 

He  had  not  known  her  at  first ;  he  blinked  and  stared  help- 
lessly in  the  lami)light ;  but  at  the  second  look,  the  sound  o^ 
her  voice,  an  awful  expression  of  horror  swept  over  his  conn 
tenance  ;  he  gave  another  wild  cry  of  affright,  half-started  up, 
an.l  fell  back  senseless  once  again. 

it  was  really  a  tragic  scene.  All  the  exertions  of  the  gover- 
ness failed  to  restore  him  this  second  time.  The  moment s 
dragged  on  ;  the  housekeeper  (not  Mrs.  Harrison  of  Sir  John's 
reign,  en  passant ;  she  had  left  upon  her  master's  death)  and 
the  butler  sat  dumb  and  awe-stricken.  Miss  Herncastle  never 
wearied  in  well-doing,  ap|)lied  her  restoratives  incessantly, 
until  at  last,  as  all  the  clocks  in  Scarswood  were  chiming 
the  half  hour  after  three,  the  groom  and  the  smgeon  came. 

T'ie  surgeon  was  a  young  man,  a  new  ])ractitioner,  and  con- 
sidered very  skilful.  He  brought  Sir  Peter  round  for  the 
second  time,  presendy,  and  once  more  the  baronet's  eyes 
opened  to  the  light  of  the  lamps,  and  die  moon  streaming  in 
through  the  bars  of  the  Venetians. 

He  stared  around,  bewildered,  his  face  still  keeping  its  ex- 
pression of  horror,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  faces  of  the  physician, 
the  housekeeper,  and  the  butler.  Then  he  spoke  in  an  awe- 
stricken  whisper : 

"Where  is  j/zd-r' 

"Who  ?  "  It  was  the  surgeon  who  asked.  "Whom  do  you 
mean,  my  dear  Sir  Peter? — Lady  Dangerfield  ?  " 

"  I  mean  Kathcrine  Dangerfield." 

The  young  doctor  had  heard  that  story,  stranger  though  he 
was — had  heard  of  Sir  Peter's  delusive  and  ghostly  belicl",  and 
shook  his  head.  • 


**AS  IN  A    GLASS,   DARKLY:' 


sion  of  coun- 
ss  Herncastle 
missed  all  the 
c  housekeeper 
le  who  under- 
ii|)U;s  with  ice- 
itile  and  burnt 
1  flu  iter  of  the 
md  Sir  Peter's 
fixed  on  Miss 

he  soft,  sweet 
ter,  I  sincerely 

id  stared  help- 
,  the  sound  o* 
over  his  coun 
lalf-started  u[), 

1  of  the  gover- 
rhc  moments 
I  of  Sir  John's 

's  death)  and 

n castle  never 
incessantly, 
kvere  chiming 
L'on  came. 

ner,  and  con- 
ound    for  the 

aronet's  eyes 
streaming  in 

eeping  its  ex- 
he  physician, 
vc  in  an  awe- 


\'hom  do  yon 


;er  though  he 
ly  belief,  and 


36s 


"  There  is  no  such  person  here,  my  dear  Sir  Peter !  Your 
mind  is  still — " 

Sir  Peter  raised  himself  up  on  his  elbow,  with  a  sort  of  scorn. 

"I  tell  you  I  saw  her — saw  her  twice  I  Don't  talk  to  me  of 
my  mind,  you  fool  I  I  saw  her!  She  came — oh,  Heaven  ! — 
she  came  and  stood  before  me  out  there  under  the  trees,  all  in 
white,  her  hair  dowing,  and  her  deatl  eyes  turned  up  to  the 
stars  !  I  saw  her  !  I  saw  her  !  and  1  live  to  tell  it !  And  five 
miinites  ago  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  her  again,  her  dead 
.e)es,  her  stern  face  looking  over  the  bed  ! " 

The  young  doctor  recoiled.  Had  Sir  Peter  gone  entirely 
mad  ? 

Mrs.  Butler,  the  housekeeper,  came  forward — a  genteel  creat- 
ure, and  the  widow  of  a  curate. 

"  My  dear  Sir  Peter,  you  alarm  yourself  unnecessarily.  I 
assure  you'' — Mrs.  Pnitler  reveled  in  words  of  three  syllables 
— "it  was  the  governess,  Miss  Herncastle,  whom  you  beheld  a 
few  minutes  ago  when  consciousness  returned.  My  dear  iMiss 
Herncastle,  pray  come  forward  and  corroborate  my  assurance." 

Miss  Herncaslle,  hovering  aloof  in  the  moonlight  and  the 
shadows,  came  slowly  forward,  speaking  as  she  came. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  startled  Sir  Peter  by  my  unfortunate 
resemblance  to  his  dead  relative.  Mrs.  lUitler  is  right;  it  was 
I  you  saw  a  few  moments  ago,  Sir  Peter." 

fie  sat  up  in  bed  ga/ing  u[)on  her,  the  wild  look  of  horror 
dying  slowly  out  of  his  wi/./,en,  little,  j^inched  face,  and  an  ab- 
ject look  of  fear  coming  in  its  place.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  him,  steadily,  strongly,  intensely.  AVhat  mesmeric  power 
was  there  in  those  calm  gray  eyes  to  subdue  him  to  her  will  ? 

"  Lie  down.  Sir  Peter,"  she  said  very  gently,  "  and  let  me 
give  you  some  medicine.  Will  you  not  order  him  a  sedative, 
a  composing  draught,  Mr.  Weymore?  I  am  sure  he  needs  it. 
{  will  administer  it,   and  will  watch,  with  Mrs.   Butler,  until 


morning. 


The  young  doctor  obeyed.  He  prepared  the  sedative,  and 
Miss  Herncastle  administered  it.  Sir  Peter  took  it  from  her 
hand,  s|3ell-bound  it  seemed,  unable  to  refuse,  unable  to  take 
his  fascinated  eyes  off  her  face.  Then  he  lay  back  ;  she  ar- 
ranged his  pillows,  smoothed  the  coverlet,  made  him  comfort- 
able, as  only  a  deft-handed  woman  can.  All  the  time  liis  eyes 
never  left  her  face — all  the  time  he  never  uttered  a  word.  'I'he 
spell  of  some  mesmeric  force  was  upon  him,  and  rendered  him 
obedient  to  her  will. 


i 


366 


**/tS  IN  A   GLASS,   DARKLY.'' 


Mr.  Weymore,  the  Castleford  surgeon,  took  his  depart- 
ure. 

"  Nothing  ailed  Sir  I'eter  but  shattered  nerves  ;  he  wanted 
rest,  repose,  tonics,  cheerful  societ)',  entire  chanj^e  of  air.  lie 
saw,"  he  said,  "  he  left  him  '\\\  excellent  hands,"  with  a  glance 
of  admiration  at  the  calm,  serene  young  lady.  *'  lie  would  go 
now,  and  call  early  the  ensuing  forenoon.  Good-night,  Miss 
Ilerncastle."  And  Mr.  Weymore,  with  a  sero)id  admiring 
glance  at  that  Juno-like  form  and  grave,  thoughtful  fjuce,  took 
his  hat  and  his  departure. 

The  sedative  had  its  effect — Sir  Peter  fell  asleep,  Mrs.  liut- 
ler  nodded  in  her  easy  chair,  Miss  Ilerncastle  chew  the  cui  tains, 
raised  the  blind,  seated  herself  by  the  window,  and  with  her 
chin  on  her  hand,  looked  out.  It  was  past  four;  the  waning 
inoon  was  dropping  pale  out  of  sight  in  the  west,  the  eastern 
sky  was  Hushing  and  brightening  already  with  the  beauty  and 
splendor  of  a  new  born  summer  day.  The  tall  trees  stood 
motionless,  the  waving  grass  and  cowshps  were  glistening  wiih 
i\c\y,  long  silver  lances  of  light  pierced  the  mysterious  green 
depths  of  waving  fern.  It  was  beautiful — beautiful.  Of  what 
did  Miss  Herncastle  think  as  she  sat  there  with  somber  face 
aiul  duskily  brooding  eyes?     After  da\'s  darkly  tokl. 

Sir  Peter  fell  into  a  deep,  refreshing,  natural  sleep  as  the 
nion^ing  wore  on.  Some  time  after  sunrise  Lady  Cecil  entered, 
hearing  for  the  tirst  time  of  what  had  occurred,  and  olTereil  in 
her  kindly,  gentle  way  to  take  Miss  Ilerncaslle's  jjlace.  Very 
haggard  in  the  rosy  brightness  of  the  July  sunrise  Miss  Hera- 
castle  looked,  her  eyes  heavy,  her  cheeks  j>ale. 

"  Go  to  your  room  at  once,"  Lady  Cecil  said.  "  You  look 
quite  v/orn  out.  Pray,  do  not  attempt  teaching  to  day.  After 
you  have  slei)t  and  breakfasted  go  for  a  long  walk.  You  need 
it,  I  am  sure." 

She  murmured  her  thanks  and  went.  And  Lady  Cecil,  with 
the  upper  housemaid  for  companion,  took  her  vacated  post. 
My  lady  still  slumbered — her  wretched  nerves  always  required 
her  to  lie  abed  until  eleven  o'clock. 

The  news  s[n-ead,  as  such  news  is  i^rctty  sure  to  do.  By 
noon  that  dviy  all  Castleford  knew  that  Sir  Peter,  riding  home 
at  midnigh.t  ([jretty  hour  for  a  magistrate  and  a  baronet  to  be 
gadding),  had  beheld  Katherinc  Dangerfield's  giost  under  the 
trees  ofScarswood,  had  tallon  from- his  horse  in  a  l''t.  had  stiiick 
his  temple  on  a  stone,  and  n  jw  lay  at  Death's  door,  i^  he  h;.d 
not  already  ente.'cd  that  gloomy  portal.     The  news  spread — it 


•'  AS  LV  A    GLASS,   DARKL  K" 


Z^7 


his   depart- 

;  he  wiinted 
of  air.  lie 
'ith  a  glance 
le  "tVoiiUl  go 
-night,  Miss 
ul  admiring 
il  face,  took 

-),  Mrs.  But- 

the  curtains, 

id   vvidi  her 

the  waning 

tlie  eas'ern 

beauty  and 

trees  stood 

■^tening  with 

rioiis  green 

1.     Of'what 

umiber  face 

1. 

lec])  as  the 
,'cil  entered, 
1  offered  in 
ice.  Very 
Miss  llern- 

'  You  look 

ay.     After 

You  need 

Cecil,  with 
cated  post. 
ys  required 

to  do.     l'>y 

Iding  home 

oiu't  to  be 

under  the 

had  struck 

,  i!"  he  h;.d 

soread — it 


uas  the  talk  of  the  town,  and  among  others  came  to  the  ears 
of  Cajitain  O'D'  'inell. 

"  Saw  a  ghost,  the  chasseur  thought,  knitting  his  brows,  in 
a  rellective  frown  :  "  what  fooling  is  this  ?  Saw  Katherine 
Dangerfield — Humph  !  Has  somebody  been  playing  a  practic:il 
joke  at  the  superstitious  little  baronet's  expense,  1  wonder  ?  I'll 
walk  over  and  see." 

He  walked  down.  It  was  past  three  when  he  reached  Scars- 
wood.  On  the  grounds  he  encountered  Lady  Cecil  Clive  and 
the  twins  out  for  a  holiday.     He  joined  the  trio  at  once. 

"  Good-morning,  Lady  Cecil.  Bo7i  jour,  inesdcmoiscUes. 
Pansey  et  Pearl,  Lady  Cecil,  what  ghastly  news  is  it  that  is 
galvanizing  all  Castleford  ?  1  don't  understand  it.  Sir  Peter 
has  seen  a  ghost." 

"So  Sir  Peter  says.  Captain  O'Donnell ;  and  who  should 
know  better?  He  had  been  somewhere  in  Castleford  until 
close  upon  midnight,  the  traditional  ghostly  hour,  and  riding  up 
the  avenue  he  saw  the  ghost  of  Katherine  Dangerfield — a  lady 
six  years  dead  !  She  came  gliding  out  from  beneath  the  King's 
Oak — she  was  all  in  white,  of  course.  She  frightened  his  horse 
■ — it  started  and  threw  him.  That  is  Sir  Peter's  story — he  re- 
members no  more.  Wilson,  the  head  groom,  supplements  the 
marvellous  tale  by  saying  he  heard  the  most  '  hoffullest  scream  * 
that  ever  was  heard,  and  rushing  to  the  siiot,  found  Saracen 
quivering  with  terror  and  Sir  Peter  in  a  dead  faint  on  the 
ground.  The  ghost  had  gone.  That  is  the  legend,  as  we 
heard  it ;  the  facts  are.  Sir  Peter  was  certainly  thrown  off  his 
horse,  ami  now  lies  ill  and  feverish  up-st.airs.  His  nerves  are 
in  such  a  state  that  he  nearly  falls  into  spasms  if  left  a  moment 
alone." 

"Who  is  with  him?"  Captain  O'Donnell  asked.  He  had 
listened  very  gravely  and  thoughtfully  to  Lady  Cecil's  explana- 
tion. 

"  Miss  Herncastle.  She  is  an  excellent  nurse,  it  appears, 
and  he  is  docile  as  an  infant  in  her  hands,  though  fractious  be- 
yond belief  with  the  rest  of  us,  I  believe."  Lady  Cecil  tried  to 
speak  very  carelessly,  "  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  there  also." 

The  c'lasseur  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  keenly  for  a 
moment.  She  did  not  meet  that  blue,  piercing  glance  ;  she 
had  stooped  and  was  gathering  the  hyacinths  at  her  feet. 

"Miss  Herncastle,"  he  repeated  that.  "And  he  is  passive 
as  a  child  in  her  hands,  is  he  ?  Now  that  is  odd,  too.  1  fan- 
cied he  disliked  and  feared  Miss  Herncastle,  because  of  her  un- 


368 


"AS  IN  A    CLASS,   DARKLY:'' 


l\ 


\ 


V   ' 


I  ■ 


! 


accountable  or  fancied  resemblance  to  this  very  dead  Kaiherine 
Dangerfield." 

"So  he  said.  I  don't  [)reten(l  to  understand  it,  or  half  the 
other  things  1  sec,  but  so  it  is.  She  gave  him  a  second  terrible 
fright,  too,  last  night." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  She  carnc  down  and  took  charge  of  him  when  he  was  first 
brought  in,  it  a]>pears.  Ciinevra  was  there,  of  course  ;  but 
])oor  (Jinevra  -  of  what  earthly  use  is  she  in  a  .'•ick  room  ?  She 
went  baelc  to  her  chamber  when  convinced  there  was.no  tianger, 
and  Miss  Herncaslle  went  to  work.  Mrs.  IJutler  says,  as  though 
she  l).Ad  been  a  hospital  nurse  all  her  life,  and  restored  him  to 
consciousness.  The  moment  he  saw  who  it  was,  he  uttered 
the  most  dreadful  shriek,  and  fell  back  in  a  second  swoon." 

"  Ah  !"  Cai)tain  O'Donncll  said,  intensely  interested. 

'•  They  could  do  niMliing  with  him  then,  until  the  surgeon 
came.  When  next  restored  his  first  question  was  '  Wliere  is 
she  ? '  '  Wlio  ?  '  the  surgeon  asked.  '  Katherine  Dangerfield,' 
was  the  wild  answer  ;  '  I  saw  her  twice  to-niiiht — once  out 
under  the  trees,  and  five  minutes  ago  by  my  bedside ! '  He 
was  like  a  man  mad,  they  say,  at  first,  then  Hiiiler  explained 
that  he  was  mistaken,  that  he  had  seen  no  one  but  Miss  Hi.'rn- 
castle,  and  Miss  Herncastle  came  forward  and  confirmed  her 
M'ords.  SJie  looked  at  him  steadily  with  those  great  ews  of 
hers--(you  should  S(>e  Mrs.  Butler  glare  wlum  describing  it) 
and  he  subsiiled  immediately,  like  a  terrified  child.  I  took  her 
place  early  in  the  morning — she  looked  fiiggcd  to  death— and 
(Jinevra  came  in  for  a  few  minutes  at  nc;on  ;  but  strange  to  say, 
he  asked  for  Miss  Herncastle,  and  seemed  restless  and  feverish 
until  she  came.  Now  he  is  perfectly  quiet.  The  tableau  in 
the  sick  room  is  this— Sir  Arthur  reading  gravely  aloud  the 
Castlcford  Chronicle  at  one  side  of  the  bed.  Miss  Herncastle 
gravely  embroidering  at  the  other,  and  Sir  Peter,  lying  with  wide- 
open  eyes  that  never  leave  Miss  Herncastle's  face.  They  all 
looked  so  very  well  content,  that  1  came  away." 

She  laughed  a  little  and  gathered  more  hvacinths  for  her 
bou'iuet.  Again  the  soldier  glanced  at  her  with  those  blue, 
brilliant  eyes  of  his,  but  again  the  brown  eyes  were  intently 
fixed  on  her  (lowers.     Was  l.ady  Cecil  jealous? 

"  It  is  a  pity,  no  doubt,  to  interrupt  so  hapjiy  and  well-as- 
sorted a  i)arty,"  he  said,  "  still  I  think  I  will  be  vandal  enough 
to  do  it.  1  am  very  nuich  interested  in  this  matter,  and  am  go- 
ing to  turn  amateur  detective  and  probe  it  to  the  bottom.     A 


• 


i'l-Jt^ 


"■V?^, 


"AS  IN  A    GLASS,  DARKLY:' 


3f^9 


•ad  Kathen'ne 

it,  or  half  the 
.'coiul  terrible 


n  ho  was  first 
course  ;  hut 
room  ?  Shi.; 
as.iio  ciantn-r, 
ys,  as  thoin.':h 
itorod  him  to 
s,  ho  uttered 
I  swoon." 
csted. 

the  surt;(M:)n 
is  '  Where  is 
Oaugerfield,' 
t — once   out 
.Iside!'     He 
'•r  explained 
Miss  Ilern- 
m firmed  her 
reat  eyes  of 
escribing  it) 
I  took  her 
death— and 
ange  to  say, 
and  feverish 
;  tableau  in 
y  aloud  the 
Ilerncastle 
g  with  wide- 
They  all 


iths  for  her 

those  blue, 

ere  intently 

ind  well-as- 
iil.d  enough 
and  am  go- 
)otfom.     A 


veritable  ghost  in  this  nineteenth  century  is  a  novel  and  won- 
derful curiosity;  let  us  make  the  most  of  it.  It  is  something 
even  to  see  a  man  who  has  seen  a  ghost.  It  has  never  been 
my  good  fortune,  in  all  my  varied  experience,  to  meet  one  be- 
fore.    I  shall  go  at  once  and  '  interview '  Sir  Peter." 

He  bowed  and  departed,  and  Pansy  and  Pearl,  who  had  run 
off,  rejoined  Lady  Cecil. 

"  How  nice  he  is,  aunty,"  Pearl  said,  "  with  such  white  t-^cth, 
and  good-natured-locking,  and  everything.  He's  nicer  than  Sir 
Arthur.  I  don't  like  Sir  Arthur,  Pansy  don't  like  Sir  Arthur, 
nor  Papa  Peter,  nor  Major  Frankland." 

"He's  lovely,"  said  Punsy,  "only  he's  too  big.  They're  all 
too  big  except  Papa  Peter,  Aunt  Cecil,  when  1  giow  ui^  I 
should  like  to  marry  Ca[ 'ain  O'Donnell — shouldr't  yci  ?" 

Lady  Cecil  blush'^d  a  uttle,  laUj^hed  a  little,  and  kissed  ihe 
speaker. 

"  Cai)tain  O  Donnell  '"^  flattered  by  your  preference,  f^ctite  ; 
still,  I  think  he  iri^f'-it  fii.u  't  tedious  waiting  until  you  grow  up. 
Who'll  reach  Mie  JCeeper's  Tree  }  onder  first  ?  One — two — 
three — now." 

The  game  of  ro'Vips  began,  and  Pansy  forgot  her  matrimonial 
irojects.  And  ti;^;  object  of  hei  nine-year-old  affections  ran  up- 
tairs,  c»nd  was  shown  hito  Sir  Peter's  room.  The  tableau  was 
as  Lady  Cecil  iiad  (K  scribed  it,  only  Sir  Arthur  had  ceased 
reading,  and  v>as  gazii^g,  as  well  as  Sir  Peter,  at  the  calm  face 
opposite,  and  the  white  rapid  fingers  and  gleaming  needle. 

"J.  trust  I  am  not  an  intruder,  Sir  Peter,"  the  young  Irislj- 
man  said,  coming  forward,  "but  hearing  of  your  accitlent— -" 

"Come  in,  O'Donnell — come  in,"  the  sharj)  querulous  voice 
of  the  invalid  said  ;  "I  wanted  to  see  you.  if  you're  tired  sit- 
ting here.  Sir  Arthur,  perhaps  O'Donnell  will  take  your  place." 

"  With  pleasure.  Sir  Peter."  The  chasseur  ca.ue  forward, 
saluted  the  lady  and  the  Cornish  baronet,  and  took  Sir  Arthurs 
vacated  seat. 

"And  with  your  permission,  Sir  Peter,  now  that  Captain 
O'Donnell  has  come,  I  will  go  too.  i  have  nut  l;een  out  to- 
day, and  my  head  aches.  I  will  adminisier  your  medicine, 
though,  before  I  go." 

Ho  took  it  submissively  from  her  hand.  Captain  O'Donnell 
watched  every  movement,  and  followed  with  his  eyes  the  stately 
figure  out  of  the  room.  She  closed  the  door  after  her,  and  they 
were  ciuite  alone. 

"This  is  a  very  strange — a  very  remarkable  occurrence,  Sir 
16" 


-  '^-  i«T«MMi<«Tiiiii»Miii>«MB 


[|^ 


370 


**AS  IN  A    GLASS,  DARKLY: 


!  t 


;r'  * 


■ 


'! 


M 


Si 


Peter,"  lie  l)Cgan.  "The  talk  is,  that  yon  saw  a  ghost.  Now 
I  thought  ghosts  were  exi'loded  ideas?  Will  you  inirdoii  me  if 
1  think  so  still?"  " 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  /could,"  Sir  Peter  groaned.  The  after- 
noon sunshine  was  jiouring  into  the  room  ;  his  nerves  had  re- 
covered their  tone,  and  he  had  a  companion.  He  could  talk 
sufficiently  calmly  now  of  the  a[)i)arition.  "Unforlunately  for 
nie,  it  admits  of  no  doubt.  As  plainly  as  I  see  you  sitting 
liere  beside  me,  I  saw  Kathcrine  Dangerficld  last  night.  1  saw 
her  face  i)lainly — plainly  in  the  light  of  the  moon  ;  the  night 
was  clear  as  day.  Saw  her  as  1  have  seen  her  a  hundred  times 
here  in  Scarswood." 

"And  she  vanished  when  you  looked  at  her?" 

"  I  don't  know  when  she  vanished.  My  liorsc  saw  her  as 
well  as  1  ;  Wilson  will  tell  you  he  found  him  trenibling  all  over 
with  terror  when  he  came  up.  He  threw  me — I  fell  and 
^^inted.  I  remember  no  more  until  I  opened  my  eyes  her»*  in 
this  room,  and — "  He  stopped  and  cast  a  look  of  nervous  dread 
at  the  door. 

"And  you  thought  you  saw  the  ghost  a  second  time.  You 
mistook  Miss  Herncastle  for  your  dead  relative  ;  she  wasn't  a 
relative,  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  She  is  very  like  her,  is 
she  not?" 

"Awfully,  frightfully  like  her,"  the  baronet  answered,  in  a 
trembling  tone.  "O'Donnell,  I  tell  you  Pni  afraid  of  that 
woman — I  don't  know  why,  but  I  am.  Perhaps  because  of  her 
resemblance  to  Katherine  ;  perhaps — I  tell  you,  I  don't  kiiow 
why,  but  her  eyes,  her  face,  her  voice,  frighten  me.  They  are 
so  like — so  like." 

"  And  yet  you  persist  in  having  her  with  you,  in  your  room." 

"Yes  ;  and  I  can't  tell  you  why  there  eitlier.  She  frightens 
me,  and  she  fascinates  me.  A\'hy  did  she  ever  come  here  ? 
lV7io  is  she?  How  dare  she  come  to  be  so  horribly  like  that 
dead  girl?" 

"Ilow,  indeed  I"  Captain  O'Donnell  answered.  "Sir  Peter, 
I  have  a  great  curiosity  concerning  this  Katherine  Dangerfield. 
Have  you  any  picture  of  her  ?  1  would  give  a  good  deal  to 
see  one." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  the  sick  man  said.  "Do  you  see  that  escri- 
toire over  there  ?  O[)on  that — the  key  is  in  it ;  open  the  third 
drawer  to  the  left  and  you  will  hnd  a  photograph  of  Kalh!,'rine 
Dangerfield,  taken  a  month  before  she  died.  You  will  see  the 
wonderful  likeness  at  once." 


I 


J 


AS  IN  A    GLASS,  DARKLY.'^ 


371 


2;]iost.     Now 


our  room." 


Redmond  O'Donnell  obeyed.  He  unlocked  the  escritoire, 
0[)ened  the  drawer,  and  produced  a  picture  wrapped  in  silver 
paper.  It  was  a  photograph,  soft  and  clear  as  an  engraving, 
and  beautifully  tinted.  The  chasseur  took  it  to  the  window, 
and  ga/.ed  upon  it  long  and  earnestly. 

The  story  of  Katherine  Dangerfield  had  been  told  him  in 
brief,  by  different  people  at  different  times,  and  't.-^  s,^l  i)athos 
had  touched  him  deeply.  Her  only  fault  had  been  diat  she 
had  loved  "not  wisel}^  but  too  well,"  had  trusted  too  implicitly, 
and  had  believed  the  man  she  lov<?d,  and  was  ready  to  endow 
with  her  fortune,  as  generous  and  faithful  as  herself  And  all 
had  been  torn  from  her  in  one  bitter  hour — all,  and  Death,  the 
only  friend  who  had  been  true,  came  to  her  aid.  And  now  he 
held  her  picture,  taken  during  the  hapi)iest  jicriod  of  her  life, 
the  month  before  her  marriage.  And,  as  Sir  Peter  had  said,  the 
first  thing  that  had  struck  him  was  the  strong  resemblance  to 
Miss  Herncastle.  No  one  could  fail  to  look  upon  the  two  and 
not  exclaim,  "  How  like  !"  Only  at  first  glance,  though  ;  the 
more  you  looked,  the  more  this  first  striking  similarity  seemed 
to  fade.  It  was  like,  but  could  never  have  been  taken  for  the 
portrait  of  my  lady's  mysterious  governess. 

He  sat  down  and  deliberately  analyzed  the  features  one  by 
one — the  points  of  resemblance.  He  began  at  the  beginning. 
First  the  hair,  this  pictured  hair,  was  brown — pale  chestnut 
brown,  without  a  tinge  of  red  or  yellow :  that  is  if  the  tinting 
had  been  true  to  nature.  It  rippled  over  neck  and  shoulders 
and  down  to  the  slim  girl's  waist,  a  bright,  feathery  cloud. 
Miss  Herncastle's  hair  was  jet-black,  straight  as  an  Indian's, 
and  twisted  in  great  shining  coils  about  her  head.  The  brow 
in  the  picture  was  broad,  open,  intelligent.  Miss  Herncastle's 
hair  was  worn  crcj>e  down  to  her  straight  black  brows.  The 
pictured  eyes  laughed  up  at  you  from  the  card  ;  the  eyes  of  the 
governess  were  grave,  somber,  smileless.  The  nose  was  the 
same — the  same  precisely — neither  straight  nor  yet  rdroussi'^ 
not  classic,  and  not  snub.  The  mouth  was  handsome — the 
handsomest  feature  of  all — square-cut  at  the  corners,  sweet, 
strong,  like  the  eyes,  sniiling,  and  with  bright,  resolute  lips. 
The  shape  of  Miss  Herncastle's  was  the  same,  the  expression 
entirely  different.  All  the  hard  lines,  the  rigid  compression, 
the  grave  resolution  of  the  living  mouth  were  wanting  in  the 
pictured  one.  The  chin  was  alike — a  curved  chin — a  square, 
determined  mouth,  the  throat  was  graceful  and  girlish,  the 
shoulders  sloping — the  waist  long  and  slender;    Miss   Hern- 


' '  --^mVmxK  «.'.««^«iA^s . 


ivT;  ! 


^x   I 


I  i 


1 

«7 


372 


"/IS  IN  A    GLASS,   darkly:' 


castle's  proportions  were  those  of  what  men  call  "a  fine 
woman." 

The  niotnents  passed  ;  in  the  ^ick  room  all  was  very  still. 
The  l)u/,/.ing  of  tlv  I)ig  blue  Hies  on  the  ])ane,  the  restless  toss- 
in;5  of  the  invalid,  tiie  chirp  and  rnslie  of  snnnner  life  witliont, 
all  were  plainly  audible.  Had  Captain  O'Donnell  fallen 
aslee|)  over  the  picture?     Peter  broke  out  at  last  in)patiently  : 

"  ^Vell,  O'Donnell,  are  you  dreaming  diere  ?  What  do  you 
think  of  the  picture?  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  likeness?  It 
might  be  Miss  Ilerncastle's  portrait,  might  it  not  ?" 

ODonncU  rose  up  and  returned  to  his  place  by  the  bedside, 
picture  in  hand. 

*' No,"  he  said,  with  slow,  thoughtful  gravity,  "never  Miss 
Ilerncastle's  picture;  there  is  not  one  expression  of  this  face 
like  any  she  ever  wears.  Shall  I  tell  you.  Sir  Peter,  what  it  is 
like?" 

"  Of  course  ;  for  what  other  reasoi)  have  I  shown  it  to  )  ou  ?  " 

"Then  here's  my  opinion  :  If  Katherine  Dangerfield,  instead 
of  dying  and  being  buried  yonder  in  Castleford  cemetery,  had 
lived,  and  voweil  VvMigeance  for  her  wrongs,  and  came  back 
here  to  wreak  that  vengeance,  this  pictured  face  would  look 
now  as  Miss  Ilerncastle's  does." 

Sir  Peter  half  raised  himself,  alarmed,  excited. 

"  ^^'hat  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

'•  'I'his.  This  photogra|)hed  f^xce  is  full  of  latent  power,  unde- 
veloped, unsusp.'cted — to  be  used,  as  circumstances  turn,  for 
good  or  evil.  If  Katherlne  Dangerfield  had  lived,  and  her  life 
liad  been  a  happy  one,  she  would  have  been  one  of  the  best, 
the  bravest,  the  most  womanly  of  women — a  mod(,'l  wife,  an 
excellent  mother,  a  noble  matron.  If  she  had  lived,  wronged 
and  embittered  as  her  life  was,  I  believe.  Sir  Peter,  there  is  no 
evil,  no  depth  scarcely,  to  which  she  would  not  be  capable  of 
sinking  to  gratify  her  revenge.  It  is  the  face  of  one  who  might 
have  been  a  dangerous  woman.  This  face  looks  a  little,  a  very 
little,  like  Miss  Herncastle.  If  she  had  not  died,  I  shor'd  feel 
certain  Miss  Herncastle  and  Katherine  Dangerfield  weie  one 
and  the  same." 

There  was  a  blank  pause.  Sir  Peter  lay  back  among  his 
])illows,  terrified;  helpless.  The  chasseur's  face  was  full  of 
dark,  grave  thought. 

"  Oood  Heavens,  O'Donnell  i  "  Sir  Peter  gasped  at  length. 
"  What  do  you  niean  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know —yet.     I  feel  like  a  man  groping  in  the 


"AS  m  A  GLASS,  darkly:' 


373 


11  "a    fine 

i  very  :,lill. 
stk'ss  toss- 
I'c  witlioiit, 
iicll  nillcii 
ilKiliciUly  : 
Kit  do  yoii 
Micss?     It 

e  bedside, 

lever  Miss 
f  tiiis  i.xc<i 
what  it  is 

to  )on  ?  " 
Id,  instead 
etery,  had 
:i(Me  back 
auld  look 


kvr,  nn de- 
turn,  for 
id  her  lifo 
the  best, 
wife,  an 
wronged 
lere  is  no 
ajnible  of 
ho  might 
le,  a  very 
lor'd  feel 
weie  one 


nong  his 
s  full    of 


t  length. 


g  in  the 


dark.  Sir  Peter,  there  can  be  no  doubt— (it  is  absurd  of  me  to 
sMi)i)ose  surh  a  thing) — there  can  be  no  doubt  Katiierine  Dan- 
gerfield  did  die  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  ?  "  cried  Sir  Peter,  shocked  beyond  all  exi)ression. 
"  Of  course  there  was  no  doubt.  (lood  Heavens  above  ! 
O'Donnell,  I  —  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  Dead!  Why, 
certainly  she's  dead — dead  and  buried  six  years  ago.  Yonc^^w 
see  her  grave  any  day,  for  that  matter,  in  Castleford  cemetery." 

*'  Ah  !  no  doubt.  Did  1  not  say  it  was  a  most  absurd  sup- 
l)osition  on  my  i)art?  Of  course  she's  dead,  as  you  say.  You 
saw  her  dead,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  Saw  her  dead  !  "  the  baronet  repeated,  with  n  shudder  ;  •'  I 
only  wish  I  had  not.  I  saw  her  dead — cold,  and  white,  and  still 
—  I  see  her  so  every  day  of  n.iy  life  ;  and  Talbot  saw  her — ask 
Talbot — he  was  one  of  the  men  who  saw  her  laid  in  her  coflin 
and  in  her  grave.  Dead!  Yes,  she's  dead — dead — dead. 
I'oor  liille  Kathie  !  " 

Ills  voice  choked  ;  he  tinned  away  and  covered  his  face  with 
liis  iiantls.  His  nerves  were  all  unstrung  ;  he  was  weak  and 
ailing,  frightened  and  lonely,  his  very  life  was  fast  becoming  a 
torture  to  him,  and  he  broke  down.  O'Donnel  looked  at  him 
in  surprise. 

"  Vou  were  fond  of  your  cousin,  then — I  mean  of  this  un- 
happy young  lady  ?     'Vhy  I  thought — " 

"  You  thought  right,"  the  little  baronet  cried,  passionately, 
*'  1  wiis  not  fond  of  her.  I  was  a  brute,  a  villain,  a  cowardly 
wretch.  1  insulted  her — brutally,  I  tell  you,  and  she — "  His 
eyes  dilated,  his  face  grew  ashen  white.  *'  1  see  her  still, 
O'Donnell,"  he  whispered,  huskily,  "as  she  stood  before  me 
then — like  death,  like  snow,  frozen  and  white,  swearing  that 
oath  of  vengeance:  '■Livings  I  will  pursue  you  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth.  Dead,  I  will  come  from  the  grave  and  haunt  you.' 
She  swore  it,  and  she  was  one,  living  or  dead,  to  keep  her  word. 
What  I  saw  last  night  has  not  been  the  living;  and  she  will 
come  to  me  from  her  shroud  and  cotifin  again  and  again,  until 
1  go  raving  mad  at  last." 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  shriek  of  passion  and  fear.  The 
last  remnant  of  man's  courage  died  out  of  thf^  miserable  little 
wretch's  body,  and  he  burst  out  into  a  tempest  of  womanish 
sobs  and  tears. 

O'Donnell  sat  silent  watching  him — pity,  contempt,  disgust, 
all  in  his  grave,  silent  face.  He  made  no  attempt  to  console 
or  soothe  this  stricken  sinner ;  most  of  all  that  was  soft  and 


n 


I 


^i 


.1 


i    •: 


is! 


374 


"AS  /y  A  GLASS,  darkly:" 


tender  in  his  nature  had  (h'ed  a  natural  doa'.h  years  aj;o.  II(j 
sat  grind)'  enou;;li  now,  wailini^  for  a  hill  in  the  storm.  It  came. 
Even  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  had  manliness  enough  left  to  l)c 
ashamed  wf  crying  like  a  whipped  schoolboy. 

"  I — 1  can't  help  it,  O'Donnell,"  he  said,  piteously.  *'  If  yon 
only  knew  what  1  have  gone  through  sinc:e  that  time,  what  I 
liave  sufifered,  what  1  still  sutTer,  you  would  feel  for  mc.  Kath- 
erine  Dangerfield  is  dead,  and  I  saw  her  spirit  last  night,  as  I'll 
see  it  again  and  again,  until  1  too  go  mad  or  die." 

"We  have  an  old  adage  in  our  countr\',"  O'Donnell  said, 
curtly,  "  •  that  sorrow  is  soon  enough  when  it  comes.'  Now, 
for  my  part,  I  don't  believe  in  gliostly  visitations  of  any  kind, 
in  common  with  most  pcojtle ;  but  that  is  a  point  we  won't 
nigue.  You  believe  you  saw  a  ghosf  last  night.  Now,  Sir 
Peter,  is  it  not  barely  possible  that  Miss  Herncastle  may  be  a 
sonniambulist,  and  that  all  unconsciously  she  got  out  of  bed 
en  sac  de  finit,  and  that  it  was  she  you  saw  under  the  King's 
Oak  ?  " 

But  Sir  Peter  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said.  '*  Some  one  asked  that  very  question — the 
earl  I  think  it  was — and  Miss  Herncastle  replied  that  she  had 
never  walked  in  her  sleej)  in  her  life— that  she  had  gone  to  her 
room  at  half-past  ten.  And  it  wasn't  Miss  Herncastle — it  was 
no  resemblance  this  time — it  was  Katherine  Dangerfield." 

Cai)tain  O'Donnell  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Argument  was 
wasted  here.  He  drew  out  his  watch.  It  was  past  six  now, 
and  nearing  the  Scarswood  dinner  hour. 

"  I  won't  stay  to  dine  to-day,  1  think,"  he  said  rising.  "Sir 
Peter,  with  your  permission  I'll  keep  this  i)ictnre  for  the  present  : 
I  don't  see  my  way  very  clearly  through  this  maze,  and  I  cati't 
believe  your  solution  of  the  enigma.  Katherine  DangiMt'ield 
may  not  have  been  noted  for  an  overstock  of  sound  sense  in 
her  lifetime,  but  I  can't  believe  that  her  ghost  would  remain  so 
supremely  silly  after  six  years'  interment  as  to  take  nocturnal 
rambles  to  Scarswood  on  pur|)ose  to  keep  a  most  sensational 
vow.  I  simply  can't  believe  it.  Shall  I  ring  for  some  one  to 
take  my  place  ?  " 

He  rang.  Mrs.  P>utler  and  one  of  the  maids  came,  and  the 
chasseur  took  his  departure.  The  family  were  in  their  looms 
dressing ;  he  made  his  way  out  unnoticed  ;  the  lawn  and  ter- 
races were  deserted  also,  and  he  passed  out  of  the  house  and 
the  gates  undisturbed. 

He  walked  on  to  the  town,  lost  in  thought.     What  did  this 


"AS  IN  A    GLASS,    A/A'A'/.J'." 


375 


s  ago.     TT(» 

It  came. 

\\  loft  to  be 

'.  "If  you 
me,  what  1 
inc.  Kalli- 
liglit,  as  I'll 

iniicll  said, 
cs.'  Now, 
f  any  kind, 
t  wc  won't 
Now,  Sir 
L*  may  be  a 
[)iit  of  bed 
the  King's 


stion— the 
lat  she  had 
one  to  her 
le — it  was 
lehl." 
iment  was 
t  six  now, 

ng.  "Sir 
e  present  : 
ntl  I  cant 
'angiMt'ield 
1  sense  in 
remain  so 
nocturnal 
-Misational 
ne  one  to 


,  and  the 

eir  rooms 

and  ter- 

ouse  and 

:  did  this 


mystery  mean?  He  might  have  thouglit  the  gliost  a  myth,  a 
figment  of  Sir  Peter's  su|)erstili()us,  oveiheated  'orain,  but  there 
was  the  evidence  of  the  horse.  The  groom  had  found  him 
quivering  with  terror — he  had  thrown  his  master  in  his  fright-  iicd 
bound — and  Saracen  was  a  cahn,  well-tempered  animal  on  or- 
dinary occasions.  Saracen  was  not  suptTstitious.  nor  likel\'  lo 
be  terrified  by  optical  illusions.  The  horse  liad  seen  soniit/iiiii^ 
—now  what  had  that  someting  been — goblin  or  human  ? 

It  was  a  riddle  the  Chasseur  d'Africpie  could  not  read.  He 
walked  on  with  knitted  brow  and  perplexed  mind  info  and  hc- 
}ond  the  town.  It  was  very  (juiet ;  the  res|)ectable  fourtli-(  las,;, 
shop-keeping,  rate-paying  citizens  were  in  their  back  parlors 
drinking  tea.  An  opal  gray  sky  was  overhead,  a  faint  evening 
breeze  was  stirring,  and  the  goUlen  evening  stars  twinkli-d  an)id 
the  golden  gray.  In  its  peace  and  hush  Captain  O'Donnell 
went  on,  out  into  the  suburbs,  opened  the  (piaint  old  gate,  and 
entered  the  solitary  churchyard.  The  deejjest  hush  of  all 
reigned  here;  not  a  sound  but  the  twitter  of  the  birds  in  their 
nests  and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  could  be  heard,  1 1  j  passed 
(jn,  looking  at  the  inscri|)fions  on  the  tombstones,  unt'l  at  last 
he  reached  that  solitary  corner,  where,  imiler  the  waving  fir- 
trees,  six  years  ago,  they  had  laid  Sir  John  Dangerlield's  adopted 
daughter. 

He  i)aused.  The  gray-stone  was  overrun  with  clematis,  the 
grave  with  grass  and  weeds.  He  pushed  aside  the  fragrant  blos- 
soms and  read  the  inscription  : 

Katherine, 

Mt\t  17. 

Resurgam. 

"  Resurgam — I  shall  rise  again  !"  In  the  light  of  these  lat- 
ter events,  how  ominous  the  word  sounded — like  a  threat  from 
the  dead.  He  stood  there  until  the  last  yellow  gliinaier  died 
out  of  the  western  sky,  and  the  whole  expanse  had  turned  cold 
and  gray.  The  rising  night  wind  struck  chill,  when  at  last  he 
aroused  himself  and  turned  away. 

But  before  he  had  gone  five  yards  he  paused.  Then  r.fter  that 
momentary  i)ause,  he  passed  into  the  shadow  of  a  tree-shaded 
walk,  and  stood  still. 

A  man  and  a  woman  were  standing  just  inside  the  gate, 
screened  from  ]iassers-by  outside,  by  the  elms  that  waved  above 
it.  Even  at  that  distance  he  recognized  the  woman's  figure — 
it  was  not  lo  be  miiUaken — it  was  Miss  Herncastle. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WCST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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376 


•M^  /A^  /i    GLASS,   darkly:' 


Fate  seemed  to  take  a  malicious  pleasure  in  throwing  him 
across  her  path,  in  foredooming  him  to  play  the  spy. 

He  iitood  still;  it  was  impossible  to  go  a  step  onward  with- 
out being  seen,  and  what  would  the  governess  think,  but  that 
he  had  dogged  her  steps  again  ?  He  stood  still.  The  backs  of 
both  were  turned  upon  him,  but  he  knew  Miss  Herncastle's 
stately  figure  and  bearing,  and  dark,  plain  dress  immediately. 
The  man — who  was  the  man  ?  For  one  moment  O'Donnell's; 
heart  gave  a  bound — a  sickening  bound  of  fear.  Was  it — was 
it  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  ?  The  height  was  the  same  ;  tliis  man 
wore  a  gray  suit  and  a  conical  felt  hat  ;  so  did  the  Cornish  bar- 
onet upon  occasions.  Could  it  be  the  chivalrous,  the  high- 
minded  Cornishman  could  stoop  to  such  deception,  such  double- 
dealings,  such  treachery  to  himself  and  Lady  Cecil  as  to  keep 
private  assignations  with  the  governess? 

As  the  thought  crossed  his  mind  the  two  turned,  moved  for- 
ward to  the  gate,  and  he  saw  with  i  sense  of  unutterable  relief 
that  he  was  mistaken.  It  was  not  Sir  Arthur,  it  was  in  no  way 
like  him.  He  saw  the  face  of  an  utter  stranger.  The  daylight 
still  lingered,  and  the  moon  shone  radiantly  bright ;  he  saw  their 
faces  clearly.  Miss  Herncastle,  calm,  statuesque,  as  usual ; 
the  man  tall,  fair,  student-like,  with  stooping  shoulders  and  a 
pale,  thin  face.  They  were  speaking  as  they  approached  the 
gate  and  him.  In  the  profound  stillness  the  last  words  of  Miss 
Herncastle  in  her  rich,  sweet,  full  tones,  came  to  him  : 

'■You  must  go  back,  Henry,  and  at  once,  to-night.  Tiiat 
you  have  been  at  Castleford  at  all  will  cause  talk  enough,  I 
had  to  tell  you  Marie  De  Lansac  was  here,  but  I  certainly  did 
not  expect  you  to  answer  my  letter  in  person.  Say  good  by 
now,  and  let  me  go  on  alone ;  it  would  be  fatal  to  all  my  proj- 
ects to  be  seen  with  you." 

Their  hands  clasped.  The  man  murmured  something  ear- 
nestly, in  too  low  a  tone  to  be  heard.  Miss  Herncastle's  clear 
voice  responded  : 

*'  Give  up  I  give  up  now,  after  all  I  have  suftered,  all  I  have 
worked  so  hard  to  accomplish,  all  I  have  done  already  !  Never  ! 
You  should  know  me  better  than  that.  The  first  installment  of 
my  revenge  I  have  had.  What  I  have  sworn,  1  will  do  ;  then, 
I  care  little  what  comes.  Good-night,  my  kind,  my  faithful 
friend  ;  go  back  to  London  at  once." 

She  pulled  a  thick  lace  vail  she  wore  over  her  face,  and  walked 
away,  with  her  own  rapid,  resolute  step.     The  man  lingered  for 


1 


THE  STORY  OF   THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


Z77 


t'  Ilia: 


nearly  ten  minutes  ;  then  he,  too,  opened  the  gate  and  disap- 
peared in  the  gloaming. 

And  Captain  O'Donnell!  He  stood  hke  one  petrified. 
Marie  De  Lansac  !  his  sister's  Louisianian  name,  on  Miss  Hern- 
castle's  lips — and  to  this  man  !  What  did  it  mean?  And  her 
revenge — the  oath  she  had  made,  and  meant  to  keep  !  What 
strange,  incomprehensible  jumble  ofmysterieswasit  altogether? 
His  head  absolutely  turned  giddy  for  a  moment  with  the  surg- 
ing thoughts  that  filled  his  brain. 

Who  was  Miss  Herncastle  ?  He  glanced  at  the  grave,  and 
the  gray  stone,  gleaming  in  the  moonrays,  that  told  the  legend 
of  Katherine  Dangerfield's  death.  If  Katherine  Dangerfield 
were  dead — if — what  reason  had  he  to  doubt  it  ?  And  yet  ! — 
and  yet ! — his  blue  eyes  flashed,  his  lips  set,  his  face  grew  like 
iron  with  sudden,  stern  resolve. 

"I'll  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  juggling.  I'll  find  out  who 
you  are,  my  mysterious  Miss  Herncastle  !  I'll  find  out  whether 
it  was  Katherine  Dangerfield's  ghost  Sir  Peter  saw  under  the 
King's  Oak,  or — a  living  woman  !  And,  above  all,  I'll  find  out 
what  the  name  of  Marie  De  Lansac  has  to  do  with  you  or  that 
man  I " 


CHAPTER  XVr. 


THE   STORY   OF  THE    IVORY   MINIATURE. 


ADY  CECIL,"  Lord  Ruysland  said,  "a  word  with 

you  ! " 

It  was  an  ominous  beginning.     The   earl   never 

called  his  daughter  by  her  proper  name  of  title  unless 
in  a  state  of  unusual  gravity  or  unusual  displeasure.  They 
were  alone  together.  The  hour  was  just  after  dinner,  and  the 
ladies,  among  whom  the  governess  had  figured,  had  udjourned 
from  the  (lining  to  tlie  drawing  room.  Miss  O'Donnell  had 
gone  to  the  jiiano,  my  lady  perused  a  popular  novel.  Miss 
Herncastle  seated  herself  by  the  window  with  that  filmy  lace 
embroidery — Lady  Dangerfield  kept  her  constantly  employed 
— and  Lady  Cecil,  feeling  oppressed  and  out  of  spirits  some- 
how, had  thrown  a  black  lace  mantilla  over  her  head  and  white 
summer  dress,  and  stepped  through  one  of  the  oi)en  windows 


378 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


out  upon  the  lawn,  and  down  to  the  terrace.  She  was  jiacing 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  up  and  down,  a  lovely  vision  in  the 
sunset,  when  her  father's  voice  abruptly  spoke  behind  her. 

She  turned  in  surprise.  She  had  imagined  him  with  the 
other  gentlemen,  Sir  Arthur,  the  major,  and  Sir  Peter,  over  the 
wine  and  after-dinner  talk,  and  here  he  was  beside  her,  with  a 
face  of  ominous  gravity. 

"  With  me,  papa  ?     Certainly.     What  is  it  ?  " 

But  her  heart  fluttered,  guiltily  a  little,  as  she  asked  the 
question,  what  it  was^something  very  uni)leasant,  flashed 
upon  her  at  once. 

"What  is  it?"  Do  you  really  need  to  ask  that  question. 
Lady  Cecil  ?  I  have  come  to  demand  an  explanation  of  your 
extraordinary  conduct  of  late." 

"  My  extraordinary  conduct !     Really,  papa — " 

"  That  will  do !  You  feign  surprise  very  well  my  dear ; 
but  it  doesn't  deceive  me.  I  repeat — your  extraordinary  con- 
duct !  What  do  you  intend  by  it  ?  In  regard  to  Miss  Hern- 
castle,  I  mean,  of  course." 

"  Miss  Herncastle  !  " 

"  Lady  Cecil,  be  good  enough  to  cease  repeating  everything 
I  say  as  if  you  were  a  parrot,"  her  father  said,  more  irritation 
in  his  face  and  tone  than  she  had  ever  seen  or  heard  there  be- 
fore in  her  life.  "  Your  hearing  is  not  defective,  I  hope — I 
said  Miss  Herncastle.  What  do  you  mean  by  your  conduct  to 
that  young  woman  ?  Why  do  you  insist  upon  forcing  her 
society  upon  us — by  making  her  one  of  the  family,  as  it  were 
— by  having  her  to  dine  with  us  ?  Oh,  don't  lay  the  blame 
upon  Ginevra — she  would  never  think  of  so  preposterous  a 
thing  if  left  to  herself.  I  repeat  once  more.  Lady  Cecil — what 
does  it  mean  ?  " 

'•  Really,  papa," — and  Lady  Cecil  tried  to  laugh — "  I  dM 
not  know  so  simple  a  matter  would  so  seriously  exercise  you. 
I  thought  you  believed  in  equality,  fraternity — were  a  radical 
of  the  most  rabid  sort  in  i^olitics,  and — " 

**Keep  to  the  point,  if  you  please,"  the  earl  interrupted, 
impatiently ;  "  we're  not  talking  politics  now.  It  does  not 
matter  what  I  believe,  whether  I  am  radical  or  conservative  in 
this  affair,  that  I  can  see.  It  is  a  purely  personal  and  family 
concern.  Cecil !  " — sternly — "  has  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  for- 
mally proposed  to  you  yet  ?  " 

The  faint  carnation  rose  up  all  over  Lady  Cecil's  fair,  pearly 
face. 


I 


paang 
in  the 
ler. 

'ith  the 

>ver  the 

with  a 


^ed   the 
flashed 


Mestion, 
I  of your 


dear; 

iry  con- 

Hern- 


ry  thing 
ritation 
I  ere  be- 
ope — I 
duct  to 
ng  her 
it  were 

blame 
rous  a 
-what 

r  C'A 

■  you. 
adical 

pted, 
»  not 
ve  in 
unily 
for- 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


idiXly 


379 


(( 


he    said  it. 
very  cer- 


No,  papa." 

"  ]    thought  not,"  but   his   face   darkened    as 
"And  whose  fault  is  thafi     Not  Sir  Arthur's,  I  am 
tain. ' 

"  Sir  Arthur's,  surely,  papa.  What  would  you  have  ?  The 
absurd  customs  of  England  require  that  a  lady  shall  wait  until 
she  is  asked.  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  to  Sir  Arthur  and  order 
him  to  n)arry  me  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  to  act  like  a  rational  being,  to  cease  acting  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  render  a  proposal  forever  impossible. 
Are  you  willfully  blind,  that  you  cannot  see  he  is  falling  in  love 
with  that  confounded  nursery  governess  ?  " 

"My  sight  is  perfect,"  Lady  Cecil  answered,  coldly;  "and 
if  it  were  not  I  still  might  see  that.  Sir  Arthur  takes  little 
pains  to  conceal  his  preference.  As  it  is  probably  the  first 
time  that  austere  gentleman  ever  felt  a  touch  of  the  tender 
passion,  it  would  be  thousand  pities  to  come  between  him  and 
it.     /certainly  shall  not." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  This,  papa,"  Lady  Cecil  said,  "  there  is  no  use  in  getting 
angry  or  excited— that  if  Sir  Arthur  prefers  Miss  Herncastle  to 
me  I  shall  never  be  Miss  Herncastle' s  rival.  And  if  he  can 
honestly  and  truly  fall  in  love  with  her,  as  I  believe  it  is  in  his 
nature  to  love,  I  honor  and  congratulate  him  on  his  choice. 
Why  should  you  or  I  try  to  thwart  it  ?  He  is  not  bound  to 
nie  in  any  way  ;  he  cares  as  little  for  me,  in  the  way  of  love, 
as  I  do  for  him.  Miss  Herncastle  is  a  much  cleverer  woman 
than  I  am,  or  ever  shall  be,  and  if  he  wishes  it,  why,  let  him 
marry  her.  She  certainly  suits  him  much  better  than  I  should, 
and  for  the  difference  in  rank,  if  he  can  overlook  that,  we 
surely  may.  Of  this  be  very  certain," — her  eyes  flashed  and 
her  color  rose — "  I  will  accept  no  man's  hand  while  his  heart 
is  another  woman's,  though  his  fortune  were  three  times  thirty 
thousand  a  year." 

The  earl  listened,  amaze,  scorn,  anger,  passion,  swaying  al- 
ternately over  his  placid  face ;  but  he  heard  her  to  the  end. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  proud,  resolute  face,  the  sneer 
that  rarely  left  them  curling  his  lips  cynically  now, 

"  Fine  sentiments,"  he  said  ;  "fine  heroics,  taken  second-hand, 
no  doubt,  from  the  Castleford  circulating  library.  You  appear 
to  have  changed  your  mind  of  late,  my  dear  ;  we  did  not  hear 
these  lofty  sentiments  when  we  spoke  together  some  weeks  ago 
of  this  matter  in  London.     But  things  have  changed  since  then, 


i  I 


— ff" 

1 

1 

I 

1  ■ 

r 

380 


TI/B  STORY  OF   THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


and  other  actors  have  appeared  upon  the  scene.  I  wonder  now  " 
— he  folded  his  arms  and  looked  at  her  with  sneering  sarcasm 
— "  whether  the  coming  of  that  very  fine  young  Irishman,  Red- 
mond O'Donnell,  has  had  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

Long  practice  had  taught  him  to  stab  home — surely  and 
strongly.  The  flush  of  color  that  had  arisen  to  her  face  died 
out  as  he  spoke,  leaving  her  whiter  than  her  dress. 

"  This  is  your  revenge,"  she  said  slowly  ;  "  but  I  think  my 
father  might  have  spared  me  that.  From  other  lips  I  should 
deem  it  an  insult." 

"  Indeed.  And  why,  I  wonder  ?  He's  very  handsome,  he 
has  the  dash  and  the  air  noble  you  women  love,  and  he  is  the 
*  hero  of  a  thousand  battles.'  You  all  like  strong  warriors, 
don't  you?  And  then — it  may  have  been  fancy — but  I  used 
to  think,  long  ago  in  Ireland,  that  you  were  in  some  danger  of 
— you  understand,  I  suppose  ?  Did  you  ever  wonder,  my  dear, 
why  I  carried  you  off  so  suddenly  ?  That  was  why.  You 
were  only  sixteen,  and  sixteen  is  so  supremely  silly.  And 
though  1  don't  think  your  youthful  pcnchaiit  was  returned  at 
that  time,  Irish  hearts  are  proverbially  inflammable,  and  it 
might  have  been.  Being  poor  as  a  church  mouse  yourself,  it 
would  hardly  have  done  to  ally  you  to  another  church  mouse 
as  long  as  bread  and  cheese  are  requisites  of  existence.  I 
carried  you  off,  and  you  pined  on  the  stem  for  a  few  weeks,  then 
Cecil  was  herself  again.  Now  the  hero  of  Torryglen  is  with 
us  once  more  ;  and  I  remember  the  French  have  a  proverb 
about  one  always  returning  to  his  first  love.  Your  conduct  of 
late  has  certainly  been  so  extraordinary  that  there  must  be 
some  reason  for  it." 

Me  stopped. 

She  never  spoke.  She  was  white  to  the  lips  with  some  pain- 
ful inward  emotion  ;  her  brown  eyes  looked  straight  before  her, 
with  a  light  no  one  had  ever  seen  before  in  the  soft  eyes  of  La 
Reme  Blanche. 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  her  father  said,  beginning  to  feci  that 
he  might  have  gone  too  far  ;  "  perhaps  then  I  am  wrong  after 
all  in  my  suppositions.  If  so,  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  this 
matter  lies  so  near  my  heart,  my  dear,  that  you  will  forgive  me 
if  in  my  displeasin-e  and  disappointment  I  speak  harshly." 

His  heart  !  The  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruysland's 
heart  !  A  smile  crossed  his  daughter's  lii)s — a  faint,  bitter  smile, 
not  pleasant  to  see  on  lips  so  young  and  sweet. 

"  I  repeat  it,"  her  father  said,  as  though  answering  that  scorn- 


Idcrnow" 
sarcasm 
fian,  Red- 

irely  and 
Ifcice  died 

I  think  my 
I  should 

some,  he 
he  is  the 
warriors, 
lit  I  used 
danger  of 
my  dear, 
hy.     You 
ly.     And 
turned  at 
e,   and  it 
ourself,  it 
"h  mouse 
tence.     I 
ieks,  then 
-n  is  with 
I  proverb 
onduct  of 
must  be 


ime  pani- 
ifore  her, 
yes,oi  La 

feel  that 
3ng  after 
But  this 
rgive  me 
ly." 

lysland's 
er  smile, 

Lt  scorn- 


THE  STORY  OF   THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


I 


381 


ful  su-ile  ;  "  my  heart  is  set  upon  your  marriage  with  the  son  of 
my  oldest  friend.  It  will  be  the  bitterest  blow  of  my  life  if  that 
marriage  is  not  consummated." 

"Papa,"  Lady  Cecil  answered,  "let  us  drop  our  masks — 
there  is  no  one  to  see  or  hear.  Your  heart  is  fixed  on  my 
marriage  with  the  son  of  your  oldest  friend.  How  would  it  be 
if  the  son  of  that  oldest  friend  were  penniless  as — as  Redmond 
O'Donnell,  for  instance,  whom  you  fear  so  greatly?  It  is  the 
thirty  thousand  a  year  you  wish  me  to  marry,  is  it  not?  It  is 
a  rich  and  liberal  son  in-law  your  heart  is  set  on,  1  fancy.  You 
call  it  by  a  prettier  name,  but  that  is  what  it  really  comes  to." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear — on  the  thirty  thousand,  if  you  will. 
1  am  penniless,  you  are  penniless.  Is  the  degradation  of  mar- 
rying a  fortune  greater  than  the  degradation  of  living  on  the 
bounty  of  a  man  like  Peter  Dangerfield  ?  You  are  an  earl's 
daughter,  a  reigning  belle,  high-born  and  high-bred,  and  you 
are  a  pauper.  The  food  you  eat,  the  roof  that  shelters  you,  the 
dress  you  wear,  are  unpaid  for.  This  sort  of  thing  can't  go  on 
forever.  A  crisis  is  very  near — flight,  exile  for  me  ;  for  you, 
my  proud,  high-spirited  Cecil,  what  I  " 

She  leaned  against  a  slender  rose-wreathed  pilaster,  and 
covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  her  heart  too  full  for  words. 

"Truth  is  unpleasant,"  her  father  pursued,  "but  there  are 
times  when  it  must  be  spoken.  This  is  one  of  them.  You 
are  acting  like  a  fool — I  really  can't  help  saying  it — and  must 
be  brought  to  your  senses.  Let  us  look  the  facts  in  the  face. 
You  came  down  here  with  every  intention  of  accepting  Sir 
Arthur — Sir  Arthur  comes  down  with  every  intention  of  pro- 
posing. On  the  day  following  the  picnic  I  know  he  meant  to 
propose  ;  I  saw  it  on  his  face — any  one  might  see  it.  Every- 
thing had  gone  on  velvet  ;  you  had  played  your  cards  very 
well,"  she  winced  at  the  words — "  our  object  was  attained. 
When  Ginevrasent  him  into  the  violet  boudoir  in  search  of  you, 
I  could  have  sworn  he  would  have  proposed  before  he  came 
out.  Five  minutes  after  I  saw  that  confounded  Miss  Hern- 
castle,  sent  by  the  Demon  of  Mischief,  no  doubt,  follow  and 
spoil  all.  tie  met  her,  you  presented  her  as  though  she  had 
been  his  equal,  and  the  trouble  began.  Without  beauty,  with- 
out vivacity,  without  station,  she  is  yet  one  of  these  women 
whose  sultle  power  is  as  irresistible  to  some  men  as  it  is  incom- 
prehensible. What  you,  with  all  your  beauty,  all  your  attrac- 
tions, all  your  prior  claim,  have  failed  to  do,  s/ie  has  done.  He 
is  an  honorable  man,  and  with  the  innate  simplicity  of  a  child. 


382 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


!iil 


i 


V. 


1  believe  in  my  soul  he  has  not  the  faintest  idea  that  he  is  fall- 
ing infatuatccUy  in  love  with  her.     She  fascinates  him,  and  he 
is  led  unconsciously  into  the  trap.     She  is  one  of  your  silent 
deep,  dangerous  sort.     She  will  marry  him — mark  my  words, 
Queenie — that  young  woman  will  marry  him." 

She  looked  up,  pale  and  tremulous,  in  the  silvery  dusk. 

"  Well,  papa,  and  if  she  does  ?  She  will  not  be  the  first 
governess  who  has  married  a  baronet." 

"  My  dear,  there  is  this  of  it.  That  woman  is  no  ordinary 
governess ;  she  is  an  adventuress,  and  one  of  the  deepest  and 
most  unprincipled  sort." 

"  Papa  !  this  is  cruel,  this  is  unjust.  You  know  nothing  of 
Miss  Herncastle." 

"  I  have  eyes  and  I  have  studied  physiognomy  before  now. 
That  woman  is  capable  of  deeds  you  never  think  of;  she  is 
clever,  deep-thinking,  and  unscrupulous.  She  will  marry  Sir 
Arthur  before  he  knows  it,  and  the  day  that  makes  her  his  wife 
is  the  day  that  ushers  in  his  life-long  misery.  1  can't  stand  by 
and  see  it.     You. must  save  him,  Cecil." 

"  Papa,  it  is  impossible.  Oh,  pray  let  me  alone.  What  can 
I  do  ?  I  liked  him,  I  esteemed  him,  I  might  grow  to  love  him 
in  time,  as  a  wife  should  do  so  deserving  a  husband.  While 
his  heart  was  free,  I  was  willing  tc  obey  you,  to  retrieve  our 
fallen  fortunes,  and  marry  him.  But  all  that  is  changed.  We 
have  fallen  very  low,  but  there  is  still  a  deeper  depth  than  mere 
poverty.  If  he  cares  for  her,  if  he  wishes  to  marry  her,  if  he 
loves  her,  in  short,  it  would  be  degrading  on  my  part  to  accept 
his  hand.  I  do  not  want  to  be  poor,  I  do  not  want  to  anger 
or  disobey  you,  papa,  but  I  cannot — I  cannot — I  cannot !  " 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  sort  of  sob,  her  brown  eyes  were  full  of 
passionate  pleading  and  pain.  Her  fingers  tore  all  unseeing 
the  flowers  from  the  pillar  and  flung  them  wantonly  away. 

"  It  is  not  too  late  yet,"  the  earl  said,  calmly ;  "the  mischief 
has  begun — it  is  not  done.  Trusf  to  me  j  I  will  repair  it — I 
will  save  him." 

She  looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"How?" 

"I  shall  have  Miss  Herncastle  sent  away.  I  shall  explain 
to  Ginevra,  and  at  any  cost  the  governess  shall  be  dismissed. 
And  pending  that  dismissal  she  shall  not  be  allowed  to  appear 
in  our  midst.  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation  '  Not  a  word, 
Cecil :  in  this  matter  I  shall  act  as  I  please.  You  must  marry 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — you  shall — not  fate  itself  can  part  you. 


lie  is  fall- 
|in,  and  he 

)ur  silent 
liiy  words, 

Musk, 
the  first 

ordinary 
kpest  and 

[nothing  of 

^fore  now. 
of;  she  is 
marry  Sir 
er  his  wife 
:  stand  by 

What  can 
)  love  him 
d.^  While 
Btrieve  our 
ged.  We 
than  mere 

her,  if  he 

to  accept 
t  to  anger 
inot ! " 
ere  full  of 

unseeing 
way. 

i  mischief 
pair  it — I 


1  explain 
lismissed. 
o  appear 
a  word, 
1st  marry 
)art  you. 


TffS  STORY  OF  THE  IVORY  MINIATURE.       383 

This  is  the  last  evening  of  Miss  Herncastle's  api)earance  in  the 
drawing-room — the  last  week  (if  I  can  manage  it  so  speedily) 
of  her  stay  at  Scars  wood.  And  for  you,  don't  hold  poor  Tre- 
genna  at  arm's  length  as  you  do.  You  avoid  him  on  every 
possible  occasion  ;  you  slip  away  and  leave  him  wliencvcr  you 
can.  Don't  let  me  fancy  my  suspicions  about  O'Donnell  are 
correct." 

I.ady  Cecil  started  up,  stung  beyond  all  endurance  by  the  last 
words. 

"Again  Redmond  O'Donnell!  Papa,  this  is  not  to  be  en- 
dured even  from  you.  You  insult  me,  you  slander  him.  It 
was  you  who  brought  him  here.  Why  did  you  do  it  ?  He 
would  never  have  come  of  his  own  free  will — you  insisted  upon 
it.  And  since  he  has  been  here,  has  he  given  you  any  ground 
for  your  suspicions  ?  Has  he  paid  me  the  slightest  attention 
beyond  the  most  formal  courtesy  of  a  gentleman  to  a  lady  ? 
Have  you  ever  seen  us  together  ? — has  he  been  half  a  quarter 
as  attentive  as  Major  Frankland,  or  the  rector's  son  ?  Leave 
Captain  O'Donnell' s  name  out  of  the  discussion.  Believe  nie, 
if  all  your  fears  were  as  groundless  as  your  fears  of  him,  your 
mind  would  be  easily  set  at  rest.  •  He  treats  me  with  a  civil  in- 
difference that  is  as  unflattering  as  it  is  sincere." 

She  turned  abruptly  to  leave  him,  a  bitterness  in  her  voice 
she  hardly  strove  to  conceal,  a  passion  in  her  eyes  rarely  seen 
there. 

"Have  you  anything  more  to  say?"  she  asked  abruptly; 
"it  is  turning  chilly,  and  I  am  cold."  She  shivered  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  fair  face  looked  quite  colorless  in  the  fading 
light.  "  Do  as  you  will.  It  is  useless  to  resist  fate.  If  I 
must  marry  Sir  Arthur — I  must.  But  if  Miss  Herncastle  be  an 
adventuress,  I  wonder  what  I  am  ?  " 

She  pushed  aside  the  rich  curtains  of  silk  and  lace,  and 
stepped  into  the  drawing-room.  The  lamps  filled  the  long 
apartment  with  golden  mellow  light,  and  Sir  Arthur  sat  at  the 
governess'  side.  Squire  Talbot  had  called,  and  he  was  enter- 
taining Miss  O'Donnell.  Her  brother  was  not  present;  for 
that,  at  least,  Lady  Cecil  was  grateful. 

Lady  Cecil  took  the  vacant  place  at  the  piano.  Her  father, 
following  her  in,  crossed  without  compunction  to  the  pair  in 
the  window  recess,  the  lady  embroidering  still,  the  gentleman 
watching  the  clear-cut  profile  as  it  bent  over  the  work,  the  long, 
white,  swift  fingers,  and  neither  talking  much. 

"  iiow  hard  you  work,  Miss  Herncastle  !  "  his  lordship  said, 


384        ^^-^  STORY  OF   THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


Jii 


I  :i.! 


!    i 


blandly  ;  yoii  i)ut  us  idle  people  to  shame.  Is  Sir  Arthur  tak- 
ing lessons  ill  nccdle-work  ?  I  hope  you  find  hiui  an  apt  pui)il, 
my  dear  young  lady  ?" 

Sir  Arthur  colored,  j^artly  with  annoyance,  partly  with  a 
sense  of  coin[)unction.  Latterly  it  had  begun  to  dawn  upon 
him  that  his  mission  to  Scarswood  had  not  been  fulfilled — that 
he  had  not  asked  Lady  Cecil  Clive  to  be  his  wife.  And  in 
liart  he  stood  conuiiitted  to  her.  She  must  know  what  had 
brought  him  down  ;  she  must  know  what  had  been  on  his  lips 
when  Miss  Herncaslle  entered  the  boudoir.  And  Miss  Hern- 
caslle  I  in  some  way  he  stood  committed  here,  too.  She  at- 
tracted him  as  no  woman  had  ever  done  before  in  his  life,  and 
be  had  made  no  secret  of  that  attraction.  To  keep  faith  with 
one,  he  must  in  a  way  break  it  to  the  other.  Like  that  gal- 
lant knight  of  the  Laureate's  story,  *'  his  honor  rooted  in  dis- 
honor stood."  And  this  evening  he  was  realising  it  for  the 
first  time. 

Miss  Herncastle  smiled,  perfectly  unembarrassed,  and  reached 
over  for  the  dainty  little  basket  that  held  her  llosses  and  laces. 
Either  by  accident  or  design,  the  earl  never  knew  which,  the 
little  basket  upset,  and  flosses  and  laces  fell  in  a  shining  heap 
at  the  eaiTs  feet.  Something  else  fell,  too — a  square,  hard 
substance  that  flashed  in  the  gaslight.  Sir  Arthur  picked  up 
the  basket  and  fancy  work,  his  lordship  the  square  substance. 
What  was  it  ?  A  portrait-— an  old-fashio'ied  ivory  miniature, 
beautifully  painted  and  set  in  u  jewelei  frame.  His  eyes  fell 
upon  it,  and  a  sudden  stillness  of  great  surprise  came  over  him 
from  head  to  foot ;  then  he  turned  round  and  looked  Miss 
Herncastle  full  in  the  face.  ' 

She  met  his  gaze  with  calm  composure,  and  reached  out  her 
hand. 

"  My  favorite  souvenir,"  she  said.  *'  I  hope  it  is  not  injured. 
"How  stupid  of  me  to  upset  the  basket.     Thanks,  my  lord.'* 

But  my  lord  still  held  the  ivory  miniature,  still  looked  at 
Miss  Herncastle. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  in  an  altered  voice ;  "  it 
sounds  rather  impertinent,  but  I  must  ask  where  you  got  this." 

Miss  Herncastle  looked  surprised. 

"  That !  that  picture,  my  lord  ?  Oh  !  *  thereby  hangs  a  tale.' 
Do  you  know  who  it  is?" 

"  Miss  Herncastle,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  and  I  have  the  greatest  curiosity  on  the  subject.  That 
picture  came  into  my  possession  in  the  most  accidental  manner, 


rthur  tak- 
ipt  pupil, 

with  a 
wn  upon 
cd— liuit 
And  in 
ivliat  liad 
n  his  Hps 
iss  Hcin- 
Shc  at- 
ifc,  and 
faith  with 
-'  that  gal- 
cd  in  dis- 
it  for  the 

d  reached 
and  laces. 
A'hich,  the 
ning  heap 
lare,  hard 
picked  up 
substance, 
miniature, 
)  eyes  fell 
:  over  him 
iked  Miss 

;d  out  her 

3t  injured, 
y  lord." 
looked  at 

oice ;  "  it 

got  this." 

gs  a  tale.' 


ct.    That 
1  manner, 


THE  STORY  OF   THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


385 


and  for  the  past  six  years  I  have  been  trying  to  discover  its 
owner,  but  as  yet  1  have  not  succeeded.  Her  name  was  Mrs. 
Vavasor." 

*'  Mrs.  Vavasor !  I  knew  more  than  one  Mrs.  Vavasor,  but 
none  of  them  in  the  least  likely  to  possess  this  picture." 

"You  know  the  original  of  that  picture,  then,  my  lord?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  Miss  Herncastle.  The  original  of  this  picture 
is  Major  Lionel  Cardonnell,  my  late  wife's  only  brother,  at 
present  in  Quebec.  May  I,  in  turn,  inquire  who  was  Mrs. 
Vavasor,  and  how  she  came  to  be  possessed  of  this  ?  " 

He  was  watching  her — .ague,  strange  suspicions  afloat  in 
his  mind.  From  first  to  last  she  was  a  strange,  mysterious  creat- 
ure, this  governess  :  an  air  of  mystery  appeared  to  enshroud 
her ;  her  possession  of  his  brother-in-law's  picture  seemed  to 
cap  the  climax. 

Mi3s  Herncastle  met  his  suspicious  gaze  with  the  calm  of 
conscious  rectitude. 

"  Two  questions,  my  lord,  which,  unfortunately,  I  am  incapa- 
ble of  answering.  Six  years  ago  I  gave  music  lessons  in  the 
family  of  a  mercantile  gentleman — his  name  was  Jones,  and 
he  has  since  emigrated  to  Australia  with  his  family  ;  and  visiting 
that  family  I  met  Mrs.  Vavasor.  We  became  very  friendly, 
not  to  the  point  of  intimacy,  though,  Mid  one  day,  upon  my 
leaving  the  house,  she  gave  me  this  j^ortrait,  and  asked  me  to 
take  it  to  a  jeweler's  to  have  one  of  the  stones  replaced  in 
the  case.  She  was  suffering  from  headache  herself  she  said, 
and  dare  not  venture  out,  and  servants  were  too  careless  to  be 
trusted.  She  told  me,  laughingly,  that  it  was  the  portrait  of  an 
old  lover  of  hers.  I  took  it,  and  for  four  days  again  did  not 
visit  the  family.  When  I  returned  I  discovered  Mrs.  Vavasor 
had  suddenly  gone  way ;  they  had  discovered  something 
concerning  her  not  to  her  credit — had  quarreled  and  parted. 
She  had  gone  to  France,  they  said,  and  refused  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  her  property.  Under  these  circumstances 
I  kept  the  picture  until  she  should  send  for  it.  She  never  did 
send  for  it,  and  I  have  never  met  her  since.  I  never  heard  the 
name  of  the  gentleman  whose  likeness  it  is  until  to-day." 

She  threaded  her  needle,  and  placidly  went  on  with  her  work. 
The  earl  listened  in  profound  silence.  It  sounded  plausible 
enough,  and  yet  he  did  not  believe  her.  But  then,  he  was  prej- 
udiced against  Miss  Herncastle.  He  handed  it  back  to  her 
and  arose. 

"What  was  your  Mrs.  Vavasor  like,  Miss  Herncastle?" 
17 


;l  i 
; 


i  ! 


4  ' 

i 

■  1^ 

H 

:i 

4H 

^^H 

•( 

h  m 

'ill 

386        TI/E  STORY  OF   THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 

"She  was  a  little,  dark  woman  of  French  extraction,  T  be. 
lieve,  in  s[)ite  of  her  Knglish  nanie,  with  black  eyes  and  hair, 
and  an  incessant  smile.  As  a  rule,  people  called  her  very  pretty. 
Jler  first  name  was  Harriet." 

"Harriot?  Yes — I  see — I  see.  It  was  Harriet  Lelacheur, 
to  a  dead  certainty — Mrs.  Harman,  rather,  under  an  alias.  I 
thought  so  from  the  first.     1  thought  her  dead  years  ago." 

He  saimtered  away.  Sir  Ardiur  in  turn  took  the  ivory  min- 
iature and  gazed  at  it. 

"  Did  yoH  know  Major  Cardonnell,  Sir  Arthur  ?  But  I  sup- 
pose you  must  have  been  too  young." 

"  No,  1  never  saw  Lionel  Cardonnell,"  the  baronet  said  ;  **  I 
heard  the  story  often,  though.  Very  handsome  face,  is  it  not  ? 
— much  handsomer  than  that  of  the  late  Countess  of  Ruysland, 
and  yet  like  her,  too." 

"You  knew  the  countess?" 

"  Certainly  not.  The  Countess  of  Ruysland  died  before  her 
(laughter  was  a  week  old,  but  I  have  often  seen  her  i)icture. 
Lady  Cecil  wears  one,  and  there  is  a  large  painting  at  Clive 
Court." 

"  Does  Lady  Cecil  resemble  her  mother?  If  so,  her  mother 
must  certainly  have  been  very  beautiful." 

"  She  does  not  in  the  least  resemble  her  mother — her  father, 
either,  as  you  may  see — nor  any  relative  of  the  Clive  or  Car- 
donnell families.  Miss  Herncastle,  will  you  think  it  strange  if 
I  tell  you — you  resemble  at  times,  in  the  most  singular  man- 
ner. Lady  Ruysland  ?  " 

"  Impossible,  Sir  Arthur  I  " 

"It  is  perfectly  true.  His  lordship  saw  the  resemblance  the 
first  evening  he  met  you — Lady  Cecil  has  spoken  often  of  the 
singular  familiarity  of  your  face.  I  did  not  remark  it  to  her, 
but  I  know  it  is  your  resemblance  to  her  mother.  Something 
in  the  expression,  something  in  the  poise  of  the  head  and  the 
color  of  the  eyes,  are  precisely  the  same  as  in  her  ladyship's 
portraits.  You  are  much  more  like  the  late  Lady  Ruysland 
than  her  own  daughter." 

Her  self-con)mand  was  wonderful,  but  the  filmy-web  of 
tlossy  lace  dropped  suddenly  in  her  lap,  and  her  face  turned 
from  him  to  the  purple  twilight,  where  the  odorous  roses  slept, 
and  the  tall  arum  lilies  hung  their  snowy  heads.  It  was  a 
minute  before  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak.  Then  her  soft, 
musical  laugh  chimed  on  the  stillness,  her  smiling  face  turned 
to  him  once  more. 


> 


7i. 

ion,  I  be. 

and   hair, 

ry  i)rctty. 

.clacheur, 
1  alias.      I 
igo." 
vory  min- 

But  I  sup- 

t  said  ;  *♦  I 

is  it  not  ? 

Ruy  slant], 


before  her 
jr  picture, 
g  at  Clive 

ler  mother 

her  father, 
ve  or  Car- 
:  strange  if 
lular  nian- 


blance  the 
ten  of  the 
:  it  to  her, 
Something 
id  and  the 
ladyship's 
Ruysland 

ny-web  of 
Lce  turned 
oses  slept. 
It  was  a 
n  her  soft, 
ice  turned 


•i 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  IVORY  MINIATURE.       387 

"  Another  unaccountable  resemblance,"  she  said.  "  Really, 
Sir  Arthur,  I  begin  to  think  I  must  be  a  most  abnormal  sort  01 
a  person.  I  startle  poor,  nervous  Sir  I'oter  by  my  real  or 
fancied  resemblance  to  a  young  lady  relative  of  his  dead  and 
gone,  I  startle  the  earl  by  my  resemblance  to  his  late  wife ;  I 
woiuler  now  whose  double  I  sliall  fmd  myself  next?" 

"  It  is  odd,"  Sir  Arthur  answered,  looking  at  her  gravely. 
"Your  resemblance  to  the  late  Miss  Katherine  Dangerfield 
must  be  very  striking  indeed.  Mr,  Talbot,  *of  Morecambe, 
is  almost  as  nuich  impressed  by  it  as  Sir  Peter.  Your  likeness 
to  Lady  Ruysland's  portrait  is  only  seen  at  times,  and  then  not 
very  strongly.     Still  it  is  there." 

"And  this  handsome  young  officer  is  Lady  Ruysland's 
brother.  I  have  puzzled  myself  a  thousand  times  trying  to 
imagine  who  it  could  be,  so  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  even  tJiat 
much.  But  will  you  think  me  impertinently  curious,  Sir 
Arthur,  if  I  should  ask  to  know  even  more  ?  There  are 
reasons,  not  easily  to  be  explained,  connected  with  Mrs.  Vava- 
sor, that  make  me  extremely  desirous  to  know  all  1  can  of  her 
antecedents.  Was  this  gcntletnan — so  greatly  above  her  in  rank 
as  he  must  have  been — really  her  lover  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Vavasor?  But  you  forget,  Miss  Herncastle,  I  do  not 
know  your  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Lionel  Cardonnell  has  not  set  foot 
in  England  for  over  five  and-twenty  years.  He  has  been 
stationed  at  every  military  depot  in  the  Canadas,  the  Prov- 
inces, and  Bermuda.  At  present  he  is  in  Quebec.  Your  Mrs. 
Vavasor  may  have  knov  'i  him  out  there." 

•'  No,"  Miss  Herncastle  replied,  *'  I  fancy  not.  She  knew 
him  in  England,  and  very  long  ago.  Her  maiden  name  was 
Harriet  Lelacheur." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Sir  Arthur,  a  new  light  of  intelligence  breaking 
over  him.  "  Harriet  Lelacheur.  Then  it  is  quite  clear,  of 
course.  And  you  knew  Mrs.  Harman,  did  you.  Miss  Hern- 
castle ?  " 

"  I  have  met  her.  She  called  herself  Mrs.  Vavasor,  though 
an  alias,  possibly." 

"  Or  possibly  she  married  again  after  Harman's  death.  Well, 
Miss  Herncastle,  she  told  you  the  truth  concerning  Cardonnell 
— he  was  her  lover." 

"And  v/ould  have  been  her  husband  if  b*^  could — is  that 
true  also.  Sir  Arthur  ?  " 

*'  Perfecdy  true,  I  believe." 

"  Lady  Ruysland — his  sister — carried  her  off  to  sonv  lonely 


♦ 


,88 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


place  on  the  Cornish  coast,  and  imprisoned  her  there,  while  he 
exchanged  into  a  regiment  ordered  to  Canada,"  pursued  Miss 
Herncastle. 

*'  Again,  quite  true.  I  see  she  has  been  making  you  her  con- 
fidante. He  is  married  there — to  a  French  Canadian,  I  be- 
lieve, of  great  wealth,  and  great  beauty,  and  no  doubt  lauglis 
when  he  recalls  his  first  grande  passion  for  his  s\  iter' s/cmmcde 
chambre,  and  congratulates  himself  upon  his  narrow  escape. 
Still,  if  one  may  venture  to  express  an  opinion  on  so  delicate 
a  matter,  it  can  hardly  be  called  a  very  creditable  act  on  the 
part  of  the  late  countess." 

"  What ! "  the  governess  cried,  "  to  save  her  brother  from  a 
designing  adventuress — to  save  him  from  blighting  all  his  pi  as- 
pects— ruining  his  life  by  a  marriage  with  such  a  woman  as 
thatV 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  and  a  little,  perhaps,  in  dis- 
pleasure. 

"A  designing  adventuress?  But  she  was  not  a  designing 
adventuress  in  those  days.  She  was  very  young  and  very  im- 
pulsive, and  very  much  in  love.  So  was  he.  The  end  may 
have  justified  the  means,  but  I  doubt  it.  She  was  beneath  him 
in  rank,  certainly,  but  they  loved  each  other  very  sincerely. 
May  a  man  not  stoop  sometimes  to  raise  the  woman  of  his 
choice  to  his  own  social  level,  and  yet  both  be  perfectly  happy  ?  " 

This  was  treading  on  delicate  ground.  His  e>es  brightened 
as  he  spoke  ;  he  looked  at  her  eagerly.  Miss  Herncastle 
picked  up  her  work,  took  another  needleful  of  floss,  and  went 
calmly  on. 

"  Certainly,  if  the  woman  of  his  choice  be  a  lady.  But  that 
Harriet  Lelacheur  could  never  have  been.  From  my  experi- 
ence of  her  she  must  always  have  been  underbred,  selfish,  coarse, 
and  wicked.  These  qualities  may  not  have  shown  in  the  happy 
days  of  her  youth — a  lover's  blind  eyes  may  not  have  seen 
them  ;  believe  me,  though,  they  were  always  there.  It  was  a 
fortunate  escape  for  Major  Cardonnell ;  he  has  reason  to  con 
^ratulate  himself,  and  thank  his  sister's  clever  strategy.  By  the 
way,  though.  Lady  Ruysland  and  her  ex-waiting-maid  must  have 
become  reconciled  afterward,  from  what  1  heard  the  latter  say." 

She  was  working  industriously  once  more.  The  Cornish 
baronet  was  watching  her. 

"  They  did.  My  lady,  by  way  of  recompense,  I  supi)ose, 
dowered  her  waiting-maid,  and  married  her  to  a  tradesman  of 
the  place ;  his  name  was  Harman.     He  died  before  the  first 


1^. 

while  he 
lied  Miss 

her  con. 
an,  I  be' 
bt  lauglis 
feminc  de 
V  escape. 
3  dehcate 
t  on  the 

er  from  a 

his  pi  Ds- 

k^onian  as 

)s,  in  dis- 

designing 
very  im- 

end  may 
:ieath  him 
sincerely, 
lan  of  his 

happy  ?  " 
nightened 
lerncastle 
and  went 

But  that 
(\y  experi- 
5h,  coarse, 
the  hap[)y 
lave  seen 
It  was  a 
)n  to  con 
.  By  the 
nust  have 
itter  say." 
;  Cornish 

suppose, 

lesuian  of 

the  first 


TI/£  STORY  OF   THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


389 


i 


' 


year  of  his  married  Hfe  had  expired,  leaving  his  young  wife  and 
a  babe  of  a  fortnight  old.  Of  course,  of  all  this  1  know  not'ning 
personally  ;  I  have  heard  my  poor  father,  though,  and  Lord 
Ruyslind  speak  of  it  so  often  that  it  seems  familiar  to  me  as  a 
household  word." 

"And  Lady  Ruysland  came  to  the  aid  of  her  servant  again, 
I  suppose,  in  her  hour  of  widowhood  and  adversity.  She  was 
noble  in  that,  at  least." 

"She  was  noble  in  all  things,"  Sir  Arthur  answered  ;  "it  was 
a  loyal  and  generous  nature,  but  with  a  passionate  pride,  a 
fiery  temper,  a  latent  jealousy  and  recklessness  that  have 
wrecked  many  a  noble  nature  before.  It  is  not  a  pleasant 
story,  Miss  Herncastle,  but  at  least  it  is  no  secret.  She  flew  to 
her  humble  friend,  not  to  succor,  hnt  for  shelter." 

"  For  shelter,"  Miss  Herncastle  rejieated,  looking  at  him 
steadily  ;  "  and  died  in  her  arms." 

"  Ah  I  you  know  the  story.  Yes,  in  that  humble  cottage, 
with  only  her  old  servant  by  her  side,  poor,  passionate,  erring 
Lady  Ruysland  died.  She  was  insanely  jealous — who  is  to  tell 
v/hether  with  or  without  cause  ? — of  one  who  had  been  her 
rival  years  before,  younger,  fairer  than  herself,  as  highly  born, 
but  poor.  His  lordship  was  absent,  in  Italy  —rumor  said,  to 
be  near  her.  Very  likely  rumor  erred,  as  it  usually  does  ;  at 
least  her  ladyship  believed  it,  and  on  the  night  of  the  eaiTs  re- 
turn a  violent  scene  ensued.  He  left  her  in  high  anger  ; 
bitter  words  hr.d  prised  ;  and  in  the  frenzy  of  her  rage  and 
jealousy,  she  fled.  Next  morning  she  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  All  day  they  looked  for  her  in  vain.  At  nightfall  a 
messenger  came  to  Clive  Court  from  Mrs.  Harman,  summon- 
ing his  lordship.  A  daughter  had  been  born,  a  wife  was 
dead." 

Once  mor'^  the  embroidery  dropped  in  Miss  Herncastle's 
lap.  Her  eyes  were  dilated,  fixed  on  his  face ;  her  lips  were 
breathless  and  apart  in  the  intensity  of  her  interest. 

"They  brought  the  poor  dead  lady  home,  the  child  they  left 
with  Mrs.  Harman  to  nurse.  Whether  or  no  Lord  Ruysland 
really  had  or  had  not  wronged  his  wife,  no  one  will  ever  know 
now.  Her  death  was  a  terrible  blow  to  him — for  a  time." 
The  speaker  paused,  a  second,  glanced  across  at  his  lordship's 
serenely  high-bred,  placid  countenance,  and  smiled.  "  For  a 
time.  We  lose  our  nearest  and  dearest,  and  the  world  goes 
round  much  the  same  as  ever,  and  we  with  it,  and  we  eat, 
drink,  and  are  merry,  and — forget.     Clive  Court  was  shut  up, 


1  i 


•1 


' 


i  i 


i        -¥ 


i 


390 


TJIE  STORY  OF  THE  IVORY  MINIATURE. 


Mrs.  Harman  was  handsomely  pensioned,  and  the  baby,  I-ady 
Cecil,  left  with  her. 

For  two  years  Lord  Ruysland  was  absent ;  then  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Harman  recalled  him.  She  was  of  French  extraction, 
and  had  taken  a  sudden  fancy  to  visit  her  relations  in  Paris — 
would  his  lordship  come  and  take  his  little  daughter  and  let 
her  go.  He  returned  to  England,  received  Lady  Cecil  from 
her  hands,  placed  her  with  some  relatives  in  a  remote  part  of 
F.ngland  to  grow  up,  and  returned  to  his  wandering  life.  Mrs. 
Harman  left  England  with  her  daughter,  and  I  fancy  the  earl 
never  heard  of  her  from  thut  day  to  this,  until  he  chanced  to 
see  his  brother-in-law's  picture  a  few  moments  ago.  Miss 
Herncastle,  Lady  Cecil  has  left  the  piano  j  after  all  this  talking 
v;ill  you  not  reward  me  by  a  little  of  your  matchless  music  ?  " 

She  arose  at  once  and  went  with  him  to  the  piano.  For 
nearly  an  hour  she  sat  playing  bravely  and  brilliantly,  he 
seated  near,  his  face  in  shadow,  his  ears  drinking  in  those 
sweetest  strains.  Then  she  got  up,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  experu^nce  of  her,  held  out  her  hand  as  she  said  good-night. 

"  You  have  done  me  a  great  favor  to-night.  Sir  Arthur,"  she 
said  ;  "  greater  than  you  know.  Let  me  thank  you,  and — 
good-night." 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  surprise.  "  A  great  favor,"  he  re- 
peated, holding  her  firm,  cold  hand  in  his  clasp  ;  "  I  don't  un- 
derstand, Miss  Herncastle." 

She  smiled — a  strange  exultant  soft  of  smile — looking  not  at 
him,  but  across  the  room,  at  the  figures  of  the  Earl  of  Ruysland, 
the  Lady  Cecil  Clive.  Long  after  he  had  reason  fo  know  what 
the  strange  and  triumphant  smile  meant. 

*'  You  may  understand  some  day,  Sir  Arthur,  and  iiooner  than 
you  think.     Once  more,  good-night." 

With  the  words  she  was  gone.  He  watched  the  tall,  com- 
manding figure  as  it  swept  across  the  room  and  disappeared. 
Other  eyes  had  witnessed  that  farewell ;  the  E,  "l  of  Ruysland 
set  his  lips,  the  delicate  waxen  cheek  of  Lady  Cecil  flushed. 

"  There  shall  be  an  end  of  this,"  his  lordship  thought  sternly. 
"You  have  gone  the  length  of  your  tether,  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genua;  it  is  high  time  to  pull  you  up." 

Miss  Herncastle  went  up  to  her  room,  but  not  to  bed.  She 
sat  down  by  ine  open  window,  a  starry  light  in  h  tx  eyes,  almost 
a  flush  of  color  on  her  marbie  face. 

"  At  last !  at  last!  at  last  ! "  her  lips  said. 

She  was  smiling — a  smile  not  good  to  see.     Her  eyes  were 


f 


*• 


y,  I-ady 

or  from 
taction, 
Paris — 
and  let 
cil  from 
part  of 
Mrs. 
the  earl 
need  to 
Miss 
talking 
isic  ?  " 
o.     For 
ntly,   he 
n   those 
time  in 
)d-night. 
ur,"  she 
,  and — 

,"  he  re- 
Ion' t  un- 

g  not  at 
Liysland, 
:)w  what 

ler  than 

11,  com- 

'peared. 

uysland 

shed. 

sternly. 

ur  Tre- 

1.     She 
almost 


3s  were 


! 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE    TEMPLE. 


391 


L 


fixed  on  the  night  prospect,  but  she  saw  nothing.  So,  for  up- 
ward of  an  hour,  she  sat.  She  could  hear  the  sounds  from 
below,  the  music,  the  soft  hum  of  voices,  the  low  laughter. 
She  could  hear,  but  she  hardly  seemed  to  listen.  She  was 
wrapped  in  herself;  that  glowing,  exulting  face,  you  would  not 
have  known  it  again. 

"At  last!  at  last!"  she  kept  softly  repeating,  "my  hour 
has  come." 

She  arose  ^.fter  a  time.  Even  through  her  absorption  the 
falling  dew  struck  chill.  She  arose,  closed  the  window  and 
the  curtains,  lit  the  lamp,  and  flung  the  ivory  miniature  con- 
tempuiously  across  into  an  open  trunk. 

"  Lie  there,"  she  said  ;  ^^you  have  done  your  work.  I  want 
you  no  more.  I  have  waited  six  years — a  long  time ;  but 
even  Troy  fell  at  last.  I  have  heard  all  1  wanted  to  hear.  I 
see  my  way  clear  to  the  end  now  ! " 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


THE    SCAR   ON   THE   TEMPLE. 


I  ^'i^^  TELL  you,  madam,  you  shall  not  go  !  " 
U  Sg        "  And  I  tell  you,  sii,  I  shall/  " 
^^H^        "  Lady  Dangerfield,  I  repeat  it,  you  shall  never  go 
to  that  disreputable  woman's  house  in  that  disgusting 
dress." 

"Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  /repeat  it,  as  sure  as  the  night  after 
to-morrow  night  comes,  I  will  go  to  Mrs.  Everleigh's  masquer- 
ade in  the  costume  of  a  page." 

And  then  husband  and  wife  stood  still,  and  paused  for  breath, 
and  glared  at  each  other,  as  much  more  devoted  husbands  and 
wives  will  do  at  times  in  the  marital  relation,  I  am  told. 

It  was  three  days  after  Sir  Peter's  attack,  and  for  two  days 
the  little  baronet  had  been  sufficiently  recovered  to  enliven  the 
drawing-room  with  the  brightness  of  his  presence.  All  at  once 
the  solitude  of  his  study  had  become  unbearable  to  him  ;  his 
bugs  and  beetles,  his  bees  and  butterflies  afforded  him  no  con- 
solation. Ligh.ts,  life,  human  faces,  human  voices,  he  craved 
them  day  and  night.     And  so  it  came  about,  in  the  first  time  of 


i;! 


'i, 


I-      'I 


III 

mt 

m 

!  il 

BMjj^H  } 

^  t 

Wm^K 

'^ 

ioH 

J; 

I^B' 

1     i 

H.t 

1     If 

392 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE   TEMPLE. 


].ady  Dangerfield's  exparienceof  him,  her  husband  had  nothing 
else  to  do  but  watch  her  and  grow  jealous.  Horribly  and 
ferociously  jealous.  He  didn't  care  a  pin's  point  in  the  way  of 
love  for  his  wife,  but  she  7uas  his  wife,  and  as  long  as  a  lady  ia 
that,  the  gentleman  whose  name  she  honors  has  legal  right  cer- 
tainly to  most  of  her  tender  looks,  whispered  sentences,  twi- 
light walks,  etc.,  etc.  And  Sir  Peter  got  none  of  these,  and 
Major  Frankland  got  a  great  many.  In  reality,  in  her  heart  of 
hearts,  if  my  lady  possessed  such  an  inmost  sanctuary,  she 
really  cared  as  much  for  one  as  the  other.  A  fine  fortune,  a 
fine  establishment,  fine  dresses,  superfine  dinners — these  were 
the  things  my  lady  loved,  above  husband,  child,  or  lover.  But 
all  these  things  she  had,  and  Major  Frankland  was  very  good- 
looking,  could  flatter  ceaselessly,  knew  the  art  of  love  a  la 
mode  to  perfection,  and  was  very  willing  to  pay  in  tender 
glances,  dreamy  tete-a-tetes,  whispered  nothings,  for  the  ex- 
cellent Scarswood  dinners,  wines,  horses,  billiards,  and  the  rest 
of  it.  And  to  do  him  justice,  he  did  not  know  Sir  Peter  was 
jealous  ;  he  meant  no  harm,  only  "this  sort  of  thing"  helped 
make  the  long  summer  days  pass  ;  and  if  my  lady  liked  to 
flirt,  and  Sir  Peter  did  not  object,  why  shouldn't  he  show  his 
gratitude  and  become  flirtee  as  well  as  any  other  man  ?  In  a 
round  dance  my  lady's  step  suited  h'm,  their  intellects  were  on 
an  average,  they  knew  the  same  people,  liked  to  talk  of  the 
same  things,  both  were  well  looking,  unexceptionable  of  dress 
and  style — that  is  what  it  came  to,  and  where  was  the  harm  ? 
Major  Frankland  did  not  think  of  this — Major  Frankland 
never  thought  at  all  if  he  could  help  himself  But  that  was  the 
sum  total  of  his  and  my  lady's  platonic  friendship. 

In  a  vague,  hazy  sort  of  way.  Sir  Peter  had  long  been  a 
chronic  victim  to  a  mild  form  of  the  green-eyed  monster.  All 
at  once  in  these  two  days  the  mild,  harmless  symptoms  became 
furiously  aggravated,  and  the  liiie  baronet  turned  rampantly 
jealous.  He  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  watch  his  wife,  and 
her  attendant  cavalier,  and  he  did  watch  them.  He  lost  his 
fear  of  ghosts,  his  interest  in  Miss  Herncastle  almost,  in  this 
new  ])hase  of  things.  He  sat  in  a  corner  with  a  big  book,  and 
glowered  vengefiilly  over  the  top  of  it  at  the  placid  face  of  the 
'major  and  the  vivacious  face  of  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Everlei^h's  fancy  dress  party  brought  matters  to  a 
climax. 

Mrs.  Everleigh  was  an  exceedingly  charming  lady,  of  whom 
Castleford  knew  very  little  indeed,  except  that  she  was  exces 


1 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE   TEMPLE. 


393 


nothing 
bly  and 
way  of 
L  lady  ia 
ght  cer- 
:es,  twi- 
;se,  and 
leart  of 
iry,  she 
tune,  a 
se  were 
But 
ry  good- 
ve  a  la 
I  tender 
the  ex- 
the  rest 
Kter  was 
'  helped 
liked  to 
show  his 
?     In  a 
were  on 
c  of  the 
of  dress 
harm  ? 
ankland 
was  the 

been  a 
sr.  All 
became 
iipantly 
ife,  and 
lost  his 

in  this 
ok,  and 
3  of  the 

rs  to  a 

i"  whom 
exces 


^ 


H 

V 


fiively  rich,  very  fond  of  s|)ending  her  money,  and  enjoying 
herself,  and — a  divorced  wife.  Where  Mr.  Everleigh  was,  and 
why  he  had  jnit  away  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  a  great  many 
asked  and  nobody  answered.  Mrs.  Everleigh  herself  put  her 
perfumed  mouchoir  to  her  blue  eyes  when  the  harrowing  subject 
was  alhided  to — called  Mr.  Everleigh  a  brute  and  herself  a 
martyr,  and  left  things  in  their  general  misty  and  uncomfortable 
state  of  doubt.  But  she  dressed  elegantly,  lived  luxuriously, 
gave 'the  most  brilliant  receptions  far  or  near.  The  more  fas- 
tidious ladies  of  the  neighborhood.  Lady  Cecil  among  them, 
fought  shy  of  the  charming  Mrs.  Everleigh.  Lady  Dangerfield 
and  she  became  bosom  friends  at  once.  And  this  week  Mrs. 
Everleigh' s  masquerade  came  off — the  only  thing  of  its  kind 
that  had  been  dreamed  of — and  my  lady  and  the  major  were 
going.  The  major  as  the  "Chief  of  Lara,"  gloomy  and  splen- 
did, and  misanthropical,  in  black  velvet  and  plumes,  like  a 
mute  at  a  funeral,  and  my  lady  was  going  as  Kaled,  Lara's 
page — the  devoted,  the  adoring  Kaled. ,  By  the  merest  chance, 
for  my  lady  never  annoyed  her  nervous  husband  with  these 
foolish  trifles,  he  had  discovered  the  ball,  the  costume,  every- 
thing that  he  would  have  been  much  better  off  without  know- 
ing, and  his  brimming  cup  flowed  over  !  He  fiew  into  a  pas- 
sion ;  his  wizen  little  face  turned  purple  with  rage  ;  he  abso- 
lutely swore ;  he  stamped  his  small  foot,  and  screeched  forth  in 
passionate  falsetto,  that  my  lady  should  not  go. 

"  And  I  tell  you  I  shall ! "  my  lady  retorted,  also  flying  into 
a  towering  passion,  and  using  none  too  ladylike  language  in 
her  sudden  fit  of  rage.  "  Don't  make  a  greater  fool  of  your- 
self, Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  than  nature  has  already  made  you. 
It's  no  affair  of  yours.  Attend  to  your  bugs  and  horrid  crawl- 
ing things,  your  ghosts  and  your  gambling.  Oh,  yes,  /  know 
where  you  were  the  night  you  saw  the  ghost  under  the  King's 
Oak.  I  don't  interfere  with  your  amusements — be  good  enough 
not  to  interfere  with  mine." 

She  had  trodden  on  her  worm  so  long  that  she  had  forgotten 
even  worms  sometimes  turn.  She  had  gone  just  a  step  too  far. 
The  purple  hue  of  rage  left  his  face  ;  it  turned  a  ghastly  yellow. 
He  folded  his  small  arms  across  his  small  chest,  he  planted  his 
small  feet  resolutely  on  the  carpet,  and  he  stood  and  looked  at 
her. 

"  You  mean  to  go,  then,  Lady  Dangerfield  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  go,  as  surely  as  you  stand  diere,  Sir  Peter  Daa- 
gerfield." 

17* 


'!l''i ; 


394 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE   TEMPLE. 


;     t 


1    I. 


disg 


i   I 


*  In  this  disgusting  dress  ?" 

"  You  called  it  disgusting  once  before.  I  don't  perceive  the 
usting.  It's  a  beautiful  little  dress,  and  I  expect  to  look 
lovely  in  it." 

"  You  mean  to  go  to  this  disreputable  woman's  house  ?  " 

"You  said  that  before  also,  Sir  Peter.  Don't  let  Mrs.  Ever- 
leigh  hear  you,  or  she  may  bring  action  against  you  for  defama- 
tion of  character.  Her  husband  was  a  brute,  and  she  had  to 
leave  him — nothing  very  uncommon  in  that — most  husbands 
are.  She  has  her  own  fortune,  and  she  enjoys  herself  in  her 
own  way.  1  suppose  it  is  infamous  for  a  woman  who  has  ever 
had  the  misfortune  to  marry  to  presume  to  enjoy  herself  after." 

"  You  mean  to  go  to  Mrs.  Everleigh's  masquerade  !  You 
mean  to  go  in  male  attire  ! — you,  the  mother  of  two  children  ! 
— a  woman  thirty-five  years  of  age  !  " 

That  was  too  much.  Lady  Dangerfield  might  have  endured 
a  great  deal ;  but  this  last  insult — this  cold-blooded  mention  of 
her  age — no,  she  could  not  stand  that.  What  right-feeling 
woman,  indeed,  could? 

"  You  little  wretch ! "  cried  Sir  Peter's  wife ;  and  for  a 
moment  the  words,  and  the  tone,  and  the  look,  brought  Kath- 
erinc  Dangerfield,  and  the  conservatory,  and  six  years,  back 
vividly  before  him.  "  How  dare  you  use  such  language  as  that 
to  me  ?  If  I  never  meant  to  go  I  should  go  now.  Five-and- 
thirty,  indeed  !  I  deny  it ;  it  is  a  base  falsehood  !  I  shall  not 
be  thirty-one  until  next  birthday.  And  I  shall  go  to  Mrs.  Ever- 
leigh's, and  I  shall  go  as  a  page  just  as  sure  as  Thursday  night 
comes ! " 

"And  with  Major  Frankland,  Ginevra?" 

"  With  Major  Frankland — a  gentleman  at  least,  who  does 
not  insult  ladies  to  their  faces  by  odious  falsehoods  about  their 
age.  Thirty-five,  indeed  !  I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you,  Sir 
Peter  Dangerfield,  only  this — I  shall  go  ! " 

"  Very  well.  Lady  Dangerfield," — he  was  yellower  than  ever 
— he  was  trembling  with  passion  ;  "  then  hear  me.  If  you  go 
to  Mrs.  Everleigh's  as  page  to  that  man's  knight,  then — remain 
with  Mrs.  Everleigh — don't  come  back  here.  1  have  endured 
a  good  deal ;  I  will  not  endure  this.  Go  if  you  will ;  I  shall 
'  not  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  you  ;  but — don't  come  back.  Scars- 
wood  is  1111716 ;  the  mistresses  of  Scarswood  have  been  honor- 
able women  always ;  you  shall  not  be  the  first  to  dwell  beneath 
its  roof  and  disgrace  it — that  I  swear  !  " 

For  once  in  his  life  he  was  eloquent,  for  once  in  his  life  he 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE    TEMPLE. 


395 


:eive  the 
t  to  look 

se?" 
rs.  Ever- 
defama- 
le  had  to 
lusbands 
If  in  her 
has  ever 
If  after." 
e  !  You 
children  1 

endured 
ention  of 
it-feeling 

id  for  a 
ht  Kath- 
ars,  back 
je  as  that 
b'ive-and- 
shall  not 
rs.  Ever- 
3ay  night 


vho  does 

out  their 

you,  Sir 

han  ever 
f  you  go 
—remain 
endured 
;  I  shall 
Scars- 
n  honor- 
beneath 

is  life  he 


was  dignified.  He  rose  with  the  occasion  ;  in  that  moment  you 


h 


I 


\ 


He  turned  and  left  the  room. 
she  awake — was  she  asleep  ? 
.Could  she  believe  her  senses  ? 
to  this  marital  outbreak — an 


woulc  almost  have  respected  him 
His  wife  stood  petrified.  Was 
Was  this  Sir  Peter  Dangerficld  ? 

There  was  a  second  auditor 
auditor  who  stood  almost  as  surprised  as  my  lady  herself.  It 
was  Miss  Herncastle,  who  had  entered  in  the  full  tide  of  the 
discussion,  and  had  stood,  not  seeming  to  know  exactly  whether 
to  go  back  or  go  on.     My  lady  turned  and  saw  her  now. 

*'  Miss  Herncastle  ! "  she  cried,  in  haughty  anger.  "  You — 
and  listening?" 

"  Not  listening,  my  lady,"  Miss  Herncastle  answered,  meet- 
ing her  angry  eyes  steadily.  "  You  told  me  this  morning  when 
the  doublet  was  completed  to  tell  you,  and  let  you  try  it  on. 
It  is  finished,  and,  obeying  your  orders,  I  came  in  search  of  you 
at  once." 

For  Miss  Herncastle  had  been  ordered  to  desert  the  school- 
room latterly,  and  turn  seam.stress  in  general  to  my  lady.  And 
it  was  Miss  Herncastle  who,  \  ith  boundless  taste  and  good- 
nature, had  suggested  the  two  costumes,  and  produced  a  little 
painting  of  Lara  and  Kaled.  The  major  and  Lady  Dangerfield 
had  both  been  charmed  with  the  idea.  The  major  was  now  up 
in  London  selecting  his  costume,  and  Miss  Herncastle  had 
ridden  into  town  with  my  lady,  silk  and  velvet,  lace  and  feath- 
ers had  been  purchased,  the  governess  and  my  lady's  maid  had 
since  sewed,  sewed,  sewed  night  and  day.  Miss  Herncastle 
had  such  taste,  such  clever  fingers,  and  was  altogether  a  mira- 
cle of  dexterity  and  cheerfulness.  Lady  Dangerfield's  ruffled 
plumage  smoothed  again. 

"So  I  did.  And  it  is  ready?  But  Sir  Peter  objects  so 
strongly — is  so  disagreeable — still  I  must  run  up  and  see  it." 

A  faint,  derisive  smile  dawned  upon  the  face  of  the  gover- 
ness, as  she  stepped  back  to  let  my  lady  pass  her. 

"  And  when  you  do  see  it — trust  me  to  persuade  you  to  wear 
it.  It  will  be  an  easy  task,  despite  the  counsels  of  a  hundred 
husbands."  That  was  what  that  slight  chill  smile  said  plainly 
enough,  as  she  followed  my  lady  to  one  of  the  upper  rooms. 

The  dress  lay  spread  upon  a  bed — a  shining  vision  of  car- 
mine silk,  white  ostrich  plumes,  gold  braid  and  black  velvet. 
My  lady's  eyes  lit  up  like  black  diamonds,  as  she  lifted  the 
separate  articles  that  composed  the  costume,  and  held  them 
up  to  glisten  in  the  sunlight.  Millinery  was  the  one  thing  of  all 
things  earthly,  that  most  closely  appealed  to  this  woman' s  soul. 


396 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE   TEMPLE. 


f 


i 


•■ 


"  Oh  ! — "  a  long  inspiration.  "  Miss  Herncastle,  your  taste 
is  perfect — perfect ;  1  never  saw  anything  so  lovely.  And  to 
think  that  preposterous  little  baronet  says  I  shall  not  wear  it. 
Del[)hine,  take  your  sewing  into  your  own  room — 1  am  going 
to  try  this  on."  Exit  Delphine  with  a  curtsey.  My  lady  sinks 
into  a  chair.  "Do  my  hair,  Miss  Herncastle,"  she  says,  im- 
j)aticntly  ;  "  I  shall  try  it  on  at  least." 

Miss  Herncastle's  deft  fingers  go  to  work.  Embroidery,  cos- 
tume making,  hair  dressing — nothing  seems  to  come  amiss  to 
these  deft  white  fingers. 

"  Now,  my  lady.  No,  don't  look  in  the  glass  yet,  please. 
Let  me  dress  you  ;  when  everything  is  on,  then  you  shall  look 
and  see  the  effect." 

And  then  Miss  Herncastle  set  to  work  in  earnest,  my  lady 
aiding  and  abetting.  She  had  locked  the  door;  profound 
silence,  befitting  the  importance  of  the  moment,  reigned. 
Silken  hose,  buckled  shoes,  little  baggy  silken  unmentionables, 
a  doublet  of  carmine  silk,  all  aglimmer  with  gold  cord  and  lace 
and  sparkling  buttons ;  a  little  black  velvet  cloak,  lined  with 
deep  rose  red,  seeming  but  a  brighter  shade  of  the  carmine, 
clasped  jauntily  a  little  to  one  side,  and  the  one  end  flung  back 
over  the  shoulder  ;  a  little  black  velvet  beret  or  cap,  set  on  one 
side  the  black  crepe  hair,  a  long  ostrich  plume  sweeping  over 
the  shoulder  and  fastened  at  the  side  by  a  diamond  aigrette ; 
a  tiny  rapier  set  in  a  jeweled  scabbard — that  was  the  radiant, 
sparkling  vision  my  lady's  glass  showed  her.  In  all  her  life, 
she  had  never  looked  so  nearly  beautiful  as  in  this  boyish  trav- 
esty— in  this  glowing  carmine  silk,  and  lofty  plume,  and  black 
velvet. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said  no  more — only  that  one  long-drawn  breath. 
She  stood  and  contemplated  the  picture  in  silent  ecstasy. 

"It  is  perfect — it  is  beautiful,"  Miss  Herncastle  murmured; 
"  I  never  saw  your  ladyship  look  half  so  well  in  anything  be- 
fore,    It  will  be  the  costume  of  the  ball." 

"  It  is  lovely — lovely,"  my  lady  responded,  still  staring  in  an 
ecstasy;  "but  Miss  Herncastle,  I  have  already  told  you  Sir 
Peter  has  taken  it  into  his  imbecile  head  to  object — to  abso- 
lutely forbid.  He  calls  the  dress  disgraceful — nonsense — and 
Mrs.  Everleigh  disreputable.  And  you  have  no  idea  how  disa- 
gr<  cable  and  how  obstinate  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  can  be  when 
he  likes." 

•  Miss  Herncastle  smiled  again—- that  slight,  chill,  unpleasant 
smile. 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE   TEMPLE. 


397 


nil- 


f 


"  Have  I  not  ?  But  I  think  I  have.  Men  have  peculiar 
notions  on  these  subjects,  and  with  a  man  like  Sir  Peter,  it  ia 
much  easier  to  hit  him  have  his  way  than  to  do  combat.  They 
never  yield  an  inch. 

"  Give  way.  That  means  to  give  up  the  idea  of  the  ball — 
to  submit  to  be  tyrannized  over — not  to  wear  this  exquisite  dress. 
Miss  Herncastle,  do  I  hear  you  aright  ?  " 

"  You  hear,  but  you  do  not  understand.  Of  course  you  go 
to  the  ball — only — let  Sir  Peter  think  you  don't.  It  will  be 
easy  enough  to  deceive  him.  It  may  involve  a  few  falsehoods, 
but  your  ladyship  will  not  stickle  at  that.  You  go  to  the  ball 
in  peace — and  he  goes  to  bed  in  peace,  and  what  he  never 
knows  will  never  grieve  him." 

•*  But  how  is  it  to  be  done  ?  " 

Miss  Herncastle  paused  a  moment  in  deep  thought,  her 
brows  knit. 

"In  this  way,"  she  said.  "Write  to  Major  Frankland  in 
London,  and  tell  him  when  he  returns  to  Castleford,  on 
Thursday  evening,  to  remain  in  Castleford,  at  one  of  the  inns, 
instead  of  coming  to  Scarswood.  It  is  as  much  on  his  account 
as  on  account  of  the  \)age's  dress  that  Sir  Peter  objects.  You 
can  tell  Sir  Peter,  if  you  choose,  that  you  have  given  up  the 
idea — that  Major  P>ankland  has  been  detained  in  town.  He 
will  not  believe  it,  of  course,  but  when  the  night  arrives  and  he 
does  not  return,  and  he  sees  you  retire  for  the  night  he  will. 
Once  in  your  room,  you  dress,  of  Cv.jrse  ;  bribe  the  coachman 
to  drive  you  quietly  to  Mrs.  Everleigh's,  and  wait  the  breaking 
up  of  the  ball.  At  Mrs.  Everleigh's  you  meet  the  Major;  he 
can  keep  quiet  in  the  town  all  the  following  day,  and  in  the 
evening  come  here  as  though  direct  from  the  station.  You  will 
have  enjoyed  the  ball,  and  Sir  Peter  be  none  the  wiser." 

My  lady  listened  in  calm  approbation,  undisturbed  by  con- 
scientious qualms  of  any  kind. 

"  A  famous  idea.  Miss  Herncastle,"  she  said,  as  the  gover- 
ness ceased.  "  What  a  head  you  have  for  plotting  and  taking 
people  in.  One  would  think  you  had  done  nothing  else  all 
your  life." 

Miss  Herncastle  received  this  involuntary  compliment  with 
becoming  modesty,  that  faint,  derisive  smile  creeping  for  a  sec- 
ond or  two  around  her  handsome  mouth.  But  she  was  busy 
removing  the  page's  attire,  and  my  lady  did  not  see  it. 

"  If  you  write  to  Major  Frankland  at  once,  my  lady,"  she 
said,  "  I  will  take  your  letter  to  the  post-office  myself,  and  he 


398 


THE  SCAR   ON   THE   TEMPLE. 


will  get  it  in  time  to-morrow.  It  will  simply  be  doing  a  kind- 
ness to  Sir  Peter  to  keep  him  in  the  dark  about  the  ball ;  his 
imaginary  troubles  about  ghosts  are  quite  enough  for  him  at 
present." 

She  placed  writing  materials  before  my  lady,  and  my  lady,  in 
her  spidery  Italian  tracery,  dashed  off  a  page  or  two  to  the 
major,  apprising  him  of  the  facts,  of  Sir  Peter's  unexpected  dis- 
approval and  Miss  Herncastle's  clever  plan.  Before  it  was 
signed  and  sealed,  Miss  Herncastle,  in  hat,  jacket,  and  parasol, 
stood  ready  to  take  it  into  town.  It  would  be  along,  hot,  dusty 
walk,  but  what  sacrifices  will  not  friendship  make?  She  took 
the  letter,  put  it  in  her  pocket,  and  left  the  room  and  the 
house. 

My  lady  watched  her  from  the  window  out  of  sight,  and  some- 
how a  feeling  of  distrust  and  dislike,  that  had  always  lain  dor- 
mant therefor  Miss  Herncastle,  rose  up  and  warned  her  to  take 
care.  What  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  willingness  to  serve 
and  please  her?  She  knew  she  disliked  Miss  Herncastle,  and 
she/<?//  that  Miss  Herncastle  disliked  her.  What  if  she  should 
betray  her  to  Sir  Peter,  after  all  ?  And  Sir  Peter  had  looked 
so  uncomfortably  in  earnest  when  he  had  made  that  threat : 
"  You  shall  not  be  the  first  to  dwell  beneath  the  roof  of  Scars- 
wood  and  disgrace  it — that  I  swear  I "  A  cold  chill  came  over 
her  for  an  instant  in  the  sultry  summer  air.  What  if  she 
went  ?  What  if  Miss  Herncastle  betrayed  her  ?  -and  what  if  he 
kept  his  word  ? 

"It  would  be  wiser  to  give  it  up,"  she  thought ;  "  he  might 
keep  his  word,  and  then — great  Heaven  1  what  would  become 
of  me  ?  I  ay/// give  it  up."  She  turned,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
dress — the  carmine  silk,  the  diamond  aigrette,  the  doublet,  the 
beret,  the  rapier — all  her  good  resolutions  faltered  and  failed  at 
the  sight.  "  I  rcW/give  it  up,"  she  exclaimed,  setting  her  little 
white  teeth.  "  I'll  go,  and  trust  Miss  Herncastle,  and  deceive 
the  jealous,  tyrannical  little  monster,  if  I  can.  What  motive 
has  ?'ie  for  betraying  me  ?  and  later,  if  he  does  find  it  out  from 
any  other  source,  his  anger  will  have  had  time  to  cool.  I 
would  not  miss  wearing  that  dress,  and  having  Jasper  see  how 
young  and  pretty  I  look  in  it,  for  a-  kingdom.  Thirty-five  years 
old,  indeed  I  Odious  little  dwarf!  •  I'll  go  as  surely  as  I  stand 
here." 

Miss  Herncastle  walked  into  town  over  the  dusty  highroad, 
under  the  boiling  July  sun,  and  posted  my  lady's  letter.  She 
returned  weary,  dusty,  foot-sore,  as  the  stable  clock  was  strik* 


THE  SCAR  ON  THE   TEMPLE. 


399 


L  klnd- 
1 ;  his 
iin  at 


idy,  in 

to  the 
od  tlis- 

it  was 
arasol, 

dusty 
took 

d  the 


ing  SIX,  and  as  she  walked  up  the  avenue,  came  face  to  face 
with  Sir  Peter  and  Captain  O'Donnell. 

The  little  cowardly  baronet  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden 
and  great  fancy  for  the  tall,  soldierly,  ft-arh'ss  Irishman.  A 
confidant  of  some  kind  he  must  have.  Frankland  was  out  of 
the  question — Sir  Arthur  he  stood,  like  most  people,  in  awe  of 
— the  earl  would  have  listened  suavely  and  sneered  secretly  ; 
O'Donnell  therefore  only  remained.  And  O'Donnell  suited 
him  exactly  :  he  had  not  a  grain  of  fear  in  his  nature  ;  he  had  a 
cool  head,  a  steady  nerve,  and  he  was  intensely  interested  in 
the  whole  affair.  O'Donnell  had  taken  it  up,  had  promised  to 
investigate,  did  not  believe  it  was  a  ghost,  and  Sir  Peter 
breathed  again. 

Both  gentlemen  bowed  to  the  pale,  tired-looking  governess. 
The  baronet  turned  round,  and  looked  darkly  and  suspiciously 
after  her. 

"  Where  has  she  been  now? "  he  asked,  distrustfully.  '*  What 
do  all  these  long,  solitary  rambles  meani*  Don't  you  see  the 
likeness,  O'Donnell,  to  the  picture  of  Katherine  Dangerfield  ? 
You  must  be  blind  if  you  do  not." 

"Oh,  I  see  a  certain  likeness,"  O'Donnell  repeated,  "but 
nothing  so  marked  as  to  be  terrifying.  By  the  bye,  I  was  exam- 
ining the  photograph  with  a  magnifying  glass  and  I  discovered 
a  mark  or  scar  of  some  kind  on  the  left  side  of  the  face,  right 
above  the  temple.  Now  had  Katherine  Dangerfield  a  birth- 
mark there,  or  anywhere  else — the  proverbial  strawberry  mark 
on  the  arm,  or  mole  on  the  neck,  or  anything  of  that  sort  ?  " 

"  The  line  you  saw  was  a  scar — the  scar  of  a  wound  that 
came  pretty  near  ending  her  life.  On  the  voyage  out  to  India 
her  nurse  let  her  fall  out  of  her  arms  ;  she  struck  the  blunt  end 
of  a  spike,  and  gave  herself  a  horrible  gash  just  above  the 
temple.  I  saw  the  scar  a  hundred  times  ;  it  wasn't  very  disfig- 
uring, and  she  never  tried  to  conceal  it.  A  white,  triangular 
scar,  that  used  to  turn  livid  red  when  she  got  angry." 

O'Donnell  listened  thoughtfully. 

"  Humph  !  "  he  said,  "  a  scar  like  that  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble ever  to  obliterate,  even  had  she  lived  to  be  eighty." 

"  Quite  impossible  ;  but  why?  " 

"Oh,  only  idle  curiosity,  of  course.  I  noticed  the  mark,  and 
it  set  me  wondering  what  it  might  be."  He  paused  a  moment, 
his  eyes  on  the  ground,  his  brows  knit  in  a  thoughtful  frown  ; 
then  he  looked  up  and  spoke  again,  quite  abruptly  :  "  you  told 
nie,  Sir  Peter,  she  died  in  the  house  of  a  man  named  Otis,  I 


40O 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE    TEMPLE, 


Vi  ' 


IM 


31 


ni, 


think — a  doctor,  who  afterward  removed  to  London.  Do  you 
know  if  this  man  still  lives  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  about  him,  but  there  is  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose he  does  not." 

"  Was  his  Ciuistian  name  Henry  ?  " 

Sir  Peter  paused  a  moment,  and  thought, 

"  It  was  Henry,"  he  answered.  **  I  remember  nov\  Henry 
Otis,  that  was  his  name." 

•'  Was  he  tall,  si)are,  very  light-haired,  very  sallow  complex- 
ion and  a  stoop  ?  " 

"Yes,  he  was.  O'Donnell,  have  you  seen  him?  You  de- 
scribe him  exactly." 

**  I  think  1  have.  And  she  died  in  his  house,  and  was  buried 
from  it,  you  sa^  ?  How  long  after  did  he  leave  Castleford  for 
London  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  exactly — some  months,  I  think.  There 
were  i)eople  who  said  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Katherinc,  and 
was  miserable  here  after  her  death.  She  was  buried  from  his 
house,  and  he  erected  that  stone  to  her  memory.  Then  he 
took  his  mother  and  went  up  to  London." 

"  He  and  his  mother  lived  alone  ?  " 

"  They  did." 

"They  kept  a  servant,  I  suppose?" 

Sir  Peter  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"  I  suppose  they  did ;  it  was  not  his  mother  who  opened  the 
door  for  me  when  I  went  there.  O'Donnell,  what  are  you  driv- 
ing at?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently.  If  the  servant  who  lived  with  them 
at  the  time  of  Katherine  Dangerfield's  death  be  still  alive,  it 
strikes  me  I  should  like  to  see  that  servant.  One  question 
more,  Sir  Peter,  on  another  subject.  Do  you  know  a  place 
some  three  miles  from  here — a  dismal,  lonely  sort  of  house 
called  Bracken  Hollow?" 

"  Certainly  I  know  Bracken  Hollow."  His  voice  dropped  to 
a  whisper,  and  he  glanced  half  fearfully  around.  "  Who  in 
Castleford  does  not  ?  Dismal  and  lonely  !  I  should  think^o. 
Bracken  Hollow  is  a  haunted  house." 

"  Indeed,"  the  chasseur  said,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
face  immovable  ;  *'  it  looks  like  it,  I  confess.  And  what  man- 
ner of  ghost  haunts  it,  and  who  has  ever  seen  him  ? — that  is, 
supposing  it  be  a  him.  As  far  as  my  experience  goes,  ghosts 
are  generally  of  the  feminine  gender." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  talk  in  that  way,  O'Donnell,"  Sir 


I 


THE  SCAR   ON  THE    TEMPLE. 


40  T 


'o  you 
o  sup- 

Icnry 


\ 


Pctor  .-.aid  nervously,  taking  his  arm.  "  You  don't  know  ivhai 
may  hoar  you.  IJiackcn  Hollow  is  haunted;  most  unearthly 
sounds  have  been  heard  there — heard  by  more  than  me,  and 
not  superstitious  people  either.  A  nunder  was  comniittcd  there 
once,  many  years  ago,  and  they  say — " 

**  Oh,  of  course  they  say.  That's  not  evidence.  I  want  to 
hear  what  actually  has  been  seen." 

"  Well— nothing  then,"  Sir  Peter  responded  reluctantly; 
''but  I  repeat  it — horrible  and  unearthly  cries  have  been  heard 
coming  from  that  house  often,  and  by  many  people." 

"And  none  of  these  people  investigated,  I  suppose?" 

"  It  was  none  of  their  business  ;  they  were  only  too  glad  to 
give  it  a  wide  berth,  and  go  near  it  no  more." 

"  Who  lives  at  Bracken  Hollow  ?" 

"  An  old  woman,  named  Hannah  Gowan.  She  was  Kathar- 
ine Dangerficld's  nurse  in  her  youth,  and  Sir  John  pensioned 
her  off,  and  gave  her  liracken  Hollow." 

'■'■  ]Vlicw—w — IV — ?£//"  O'Donnell's  low,  shrill  whistle 
l)ierced  the  (juiet  air.  Katherine  Dangerlield's  nurse  I  liy 
George  !  that  accounts — "  he  sto[)ped. 

Sir  I'eter  looked  at  him,  all  his  never-ending  suspicions  and 
fears  aroused. 

"Accounts  for  what  ?" 

O'Donnell  halted  in  his  slow  walk,  and  laid  his  hand  confi- 
dentially on  the  shoulder  of  the  baronet,  and  looked  calmly 
down  into  the  baronet's  little  wizen  face. 

'•  Sir  Peter,"  he  said,  gravely,  "a  light  is  beginning  to  dawn 
upon  me  ;  the  mysteries  are  lifting  slowly,  but,  1  think,  surely. 
I  can't  tell  you  what  I  think,  what  1  suspect ;  I  hardly  can  tell 
myself  yet.  All  is  confused — all  is  stranger  than  I  can  say  ;  but 
as  in  a  glass,  darkly  I  I  begin  to  understand — to  see  the  end. 
Wait — give  me  time.  As  surely  as  we  both  live,  this  strange 
mystery  shall  be  sifted  to  the  bottom,  and  the  ghost  of  Scars- 
wood,  the  ghost  of  Bracken  Hollow  jxorcised.  Now  I  am  go- 
ing away  by  myself  to  think." 

He  turned  and  strolled  away,  leaving  the  petrified  little  bar- 
onet standing  under  the  lime-trees,  the  picture  of  dazed  and 
helpless  astonishment. 

The  first  room  the  young  Irishman  passed  was  the  library ; 
its  windows  stood  wide  open  on  the  lawn ;  it  looked  cool,  and 
dark,  and  deserted — a  suitable  place  to  think.  He  stepped  in, 
let  the  sea-green  curtains  fall  again,  flung  himself  into  a  chair, 


% 


ll 


402 


T//E  SCAR   ON'  THE   TEMPLE. 


\    ll 


his  hards  still  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  brow  still  knit  fo  that 
reflective  frown. 

The  room  had  seemed  very  dark,  coming  in  from  the  glare  of 
th  J  sunset.  As,  after  five  minutes  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  the 
carpet,  he  found  that  it  was  nof  dark.  More,  he  found  that  he 
was  not  alone — the  library  had  another  occupant — that  occu- 
pant Miss  Herncastle — Miss  Herncastle  asleep. 

Miss  Herncastle  asleep  !  After  the  first  instant's  surprise, 
he  sat  still  and  looked  at  her.  It  was  easy  enough  to  under- 
stand how  she  came  to  be  here.  She  had  passed  the  windows, 
as  he  had  done — the  dark  seclusion  of  the  library  looked  invit- 
ing ;  she,  wearied  and  warm,  had  entered,  and  finding  it  en- 
tirely deserted,  had  lain  down,  and  all  unconsciously  fallen 
asleep.  She  had  removed  her  hat;  one  hand  pillowed  her 
head ;  her  face,  with  the  light  full  upon  ic,  was  turned  toward 
him.  Pitilessly,  searchingly,  he  sat  and  read  that  face.  The 
straight,  finely  shaped  nose,  the  square-cut,  resolute  lips,  the 
curved,  determined  chin,  the  broad,  rather  low,  intellectual- 
looking  forehead.  It  was  perfectly  colorless,  that  face,  even  in 
sleep.  And  in  her  sleep  she  dreamed,  for  her  brows  were  con- 
tracted, her  lips  moved.  She  looked  fairer  in  her  slumber  than 
he  had  ever  thought  her  awake. 

^Vho  was  she  ?  A  strange  woman,  surely — a  wonderful 
woman,  if  the  dim,  mysterious  suspicions  adrift  in  his  mind  were 
right.  ^V]lo  was  she  ?  Helen  Herncastle  of  London,  as  she 
said,  or — 

An  inspiration  came  to  him — an  inspiration  that  lifted  him 
from  his  chair  to  his  feet,  that  caught  his  breath  for  one  breath- 
less moment. 

The  scar  on  Katherine  Dangerfield's  temple  ! 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  suspected  as  yet,  wild,  improbable, 
impossible  things  ;  and  yet  he  did  suspect.  Now,  if  ever,  was 
the  time  to  end  all  suspicions,  and  test  the  truth.  Miss  Hern- 
castle wore  her  black  hair  nearly  down  to  her  eyebrows ;  what 
easier  than  now  to  lift  one  of  these  shining  waves,  and  look  at 
the  left  temple — it  was  the  side  of  the  face  uppermost. 

He  advanced — he  hesitated.  Something  in  her  helplessness 
— in  the  sacredncss  of  sleep,  appealed  to  his  strength  and  his 
manhood,  and  held  him  back.  It  seemed  a  dastardly  deed  to 
do  while  she  slept  what  he  dared  not  awake.  And  yet  it  was 
his  only  chance. 

"  I  may  be  judging  her  cruelly,  shamefully,"  he  thought ;  "if 
the  scar  is  not  there,  I  am.     For  her  own  sake  I  will  look." 


ROSE   O'DONNELDS  SECRET. 


403 


io  that 

glare  of 
"oin  the 

that  he 
It   occu- 

urprise, 
under- 
indovvs, 
d  invit- 
it  en- 
fallen 
wed  her 
toward 
The 
lips,  the 
llectual- 
,  even  in 
ere  con- 
ber  than 

onderful 
ind  were 
,  as  she 

"ted  him 
breath- 


obable, 
'^er,  was 
3  Hern- 
i ;  what 
look  at 

essness 

md  his 

ieed  to 

it  was 


ht;  «'if 
3k." 


\ 


% 


He  drew  near — he  stooped  over  the  sleeping  form ;  very 
gently  he  lifted  the  black  waves  of  hair  that  covered  forehead 
and  temple.  A  full  and  noble  brow  he  saw  it  was  those  bands 
of  dead  dark  hair  hid.  Lifted  off,  it  altered  her  wonderfully, 
made  her  ten  times  more  like  the  portrait  of  the  dead  girl.  He 
glanced  at  the  temple. 

Good  God !  yes  !  there  was  the  livid  triangular  scar  Sir  Peter 
Dangerfield  had  described,  just  above  the  temple. 

He  let  the  hair  drop — he  absolutely  reeled  for  a  second,  and 
grasped  a  chair.  He  stood  there  thunderstruck,  spell-bound, 
looking  down  at  her,  helpless  to  do  anything  else. 

Something  in  the  magnetism  of  that  strange,  fascinated  gaze 
must  have  pierced  even  the  mists  of  slumber.  Without  sound 
of  any  kind  to  disturb  her,  the  eyelids  quivered,  lifted,  and  Miss 
Ilerncastle,  wide  awake  in  a  second,  looked  up  from  the  sofa 
into  Redmond  O'Donnell's  face. 


CHAPTER  XVni. 

ROSE   o'DONNELL'S   SECRET. 

OR  a  moment— for  an  hour,  it  seemed  to  him — not  a 
word  was  spoken.  His  dazed  eyes  never  left  her ;  he 
stood  almost  like  a  man  stunned. 

She  rose  up  on  her  elbow,  returning  his  gaze. 
What  did  his  face,  its  sudden  pallor,  showing  white  even  under 
the  golden  bronze  of  his  skin,  tell  her  ?  Something  in  his  eyes 
cowed  her  strangely — fascinated  her  also. 

She  rose  slowly  up  to  a  sitting  posture  and  spoke,  answering 
that  fixed  look  : 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 
The  sound  of  her  voice  broke  the  spell. 
He  drew  a  long  breath  and  was  himself  again.     In  dealing 
with  this  woman,  who  could  be  too  subtle  and  too  deceiving  ? 
"  I   have  been  experimenting   in  animal   magnetism,  Miss 
Herncastle,"  he  said  coolly ;  "  in  other  words,  trying  if  my  will, 
my  mesmeric  power,  could  master  yoii.     I  found  you  asleej) — 
sound  asleep — after  your  walk,  and  I  stood  and  looked  at  you 
and   willed  you   to  awake.     You  obeyed.     A  liberty  on  my 


404 


ROSE   O'DONNELUS  SECRET. 


V'\- 


I^ 


i- 


!jl 


\ 


S^ 


I 


i 
■^ 


L1 


fl 

4-V- 


part,  perhaps,  but  the  temptation  was  irresistible.  Yoii  pos- 
sess a  very  powerful  will  of  your  own,  Miss  Herncastle  ;  that 
mine  caii  command  it,  is  no  small  triumph  for  me." 

Something  very  like  a  Hush  passed  over  the  perfect  pallor  of 
Miss  Herncastle's  face.  Her  great  gray  eyes  flashed  upon  him 
with  something  more  nearly  akin  to  anger  than  anything  he 
had  ever  seen  in  them  before.  But  thorough  self-command 
had  long  ago  become  second  nature  to  her.  Her  sweet  voice 
had  all  its  wonted  soft  music  when  she  spoke  : 

"  I  regret  Captain  O'Donnell  has  no  better  use  for  his  time 
thai,  watching  me,  and  no  better  subject  for  his  mesmeric  ex- 
periments. The  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  for  instance — did  he  ever  try 
his  mesmeric  powers  on  her,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  No,"  Captain  O'Donnell  returned,  lying  indolently  back 
in  his  chair,  and  looking  the  very  embodiment  of  handsome 
saig  froid ;  "  I  don't  believe  the  Lady  Cecil  is  a  good  subject ; 
if  she  is,  I  leave  her  to  her  rightful  owner.  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genna,  when  she  can  get  him,  which  isn"  often  of  late.  And 
speaking  of  watching  you.  Miss  Herncastle,  I  must  tell  you  I 
have  done  that  once  before,  kiicly,  on  an  occasion  when  I 
don't  think  you  saw  vie.  Not  intentionally,  as  now,  at  least  at 
first ;  afterward,  I  fear,  I  must  plead  guilty  to  the  somewhat 
dishonorable  charge.  But  then  again,  the  temptation  was  very 
strong.  And  upon  my  word.  Miss  Herncastle,  you  are  so  very 
mysterious,  so  very  interesting  a  lady — if  you  will  pardon  my 
saying  so — that  watching  you  more  than  repays  one  for  his 
trouble." 

"Mysterious!  interesting!  I  don't  know  what  you  mean, 
Captain  O'Donnell!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  you  do.  You  must  be  aware  you  are  an 
object  of  mystery  and  interest  to  all  in  this  house  :  if  for  noth- 
ing else,  your  startling  resemblance  to  that  dead  girl,  Katherine 
Dangerfield.  And  then  there  are  the  nocturnal  walks  to 
Bracken  Hollow,  a  haunted  house,  whose  gho-t  at  least  yon 
don't  seem  to  fear.  And  then  there  are  your  singular  assigna- 
tions, held  in  such  very  singular  places.  Who,  for  instance, 
but  mysterious  Miss  Herncastle  would  think  of  giving  a  gentle- 
man an  interview  in  a — churchyard,  at  nightfall  ?  " 

She  set  her  lips  in  the  line  he  well  knew,  and  looked  at  him, 
hard,  full,  defiant. 

"  You  understand  me,  I  think.  Was  it  the  night  before  last  ? 
Yes,  it  was.  I  left  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield' s  bedside — you  re- 
member I  relieved  you,  and  let  you  and  Sir  Arthur  go.     We 


I 


ROSE   O' DON  NELL'S  SECRET. 


405 


oil  pos- 
tle;  that 


pallor  of 
ipon  him 
ing  he 
onimand 
et  voice 


I  his  time 

|Heric  ex- 

ever  try 

tly  bade 
mdsome 
subject ; 
lur  Tre- 
e.     And 
ill  you  I 
when  I 
least  at 
Jniewhat 
ivas  very 
'  so  very 
fdon  my 
for  his 

1  mean, 

1  are  an 
3r  noth- 
itherine 
ilks  to 
ast  you 
issigna- 
istance, 
gentle- 

at  him, 

e  last  ? 
'ou  re- 
.     We 


had  been  talking,  Sir  Peter  and  myself,  of  the  ghost — very 
strange  affair  that,  by  the  way — of  Katherine  Dangerfield,  dead 
and  gone,  also  of  the  young  man  Otis,  who  fell  in  love  with 
her,  and  in  whose  house  she  died.  With  my  mind  full  01 
Katherine  Dangerfield,  her  sad  story  and  misfortunes,  I  went 
to  Katherine  Dangerfield' s  grave.  I  thouglit  I  had  the  place 
all  to  myself — certainly  I  never  dreamed  of  its  being  made  a 
place  for  lovers'  tryst — but  I  was  mistaken.  On  my  way  out, 
between  me  and  the  gate  two  figures  stood.  Had  1  not  re- 
cognized them — 07ie  of  them,  rather — I  should  have  passed  on, 
surprised  a  Uttle  at  their  charnel-house  taste,  but  no  more. 
But  I  recognized  them.  If  you  will  excuse  me  again,  Miss 
Herncastle — there  is  no  mistaking  that  graceful  walk  of  yours, 
or  that  stately  poise  of  the  head  and  shoulders.  I  knew  you ; 
I  also,  after  a  moment,  knew  the  man." 

Her  lips  set  themselves  closer,  in  that  thm,  unpleasant  line  ; 
her  gray  eyes  still  shone  with  that  silent,  threatening  glitter. 

"  Sir  Peter  had  described  him,  and  I  heard  you  speak  his 
name — Henry.  Tall,  sallow,  thin,  s'ooi)ing,  living  in  London, 
and  named  Henry.  There  was  no  mistaking — the  man  was 
Mr.  Henry  Otis,  surgeon,  late  of  Castleford — the  man  from 
whose  house  Katherine  Dangerfield  was  buried." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  knowledge  of  her,  her  face  changed. 
It  turned  gray — a  ghastly  creeping  gray,  from  brow  to  chin. 
For  an  instant  the  fearless  eyes  fiinched.  For  an  instant — then 
she  arose  herself  again,  and  defied  him. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  what  next  ?  " 

"  I  stood,  as  they  say  in  novels,  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  yet 
with  a  sensation  of  relief.  For  one  moment — only  one.  Miss 
Herncastle — I  fancied  your  companion  to  be  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna.  I  might  have  known  better.  It  is  possible  for  a 
man  like  that  to  swerve  a  little  froni  the  straight  path  of  duty  : 
to  stoop  to  deliberate  dishonor — never." 

She  smiled — a  smile  not  pleasant  to  see. 

"Dishonor!  an  ugly  word.  For  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  to 
meet  me  in  private  thus — would  be  for  him — dishonor?" 

"  Most  certainly,  if  he  met  you  as  a  lover.  And  he  is  fast 
becoming  that,  though  I  doubt  if  he  knows  it  himself  yet.  For 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  the  plighted  husband  of  Lady  Cecil 
Clive,  to  meet  you,  or  any  woman,  in  that  way,  would  be  dis- 
honor." 

"The  plighted  husband  of  Lady  Cecil  Clive,"  she  echoed 
softly  still,  with  that   gleaming   smile.     "  I  beg  your   pardon, 


4o6 


ROSE   O'DONNELVS  SECRET. 


\m 

1 

-J^  . 

% 

Q 

^^M^B 

B^aHl  ^ 

|l' 

Captain  O'Donnell,  he  is  not,  he  never  has  been  for  one 
second  that.  And,"  her  eyes  flashed  up  now,  in  a  sudden  fire 
of  triumph,  "  I  V  ive  but  to  say  it — and  he  never  will  !  " 

He  sat  still  looking  at  her,  pale,  and  grave,  and  surprised. 

"Never  has  been?  Do  you  mean  to  say.  Miss  Herncastle, 
that  Sir  Arthur  has  not  been  for  yer.  s  the  pledged  husband  of 
Lord  Ruysland's  daughter  ?  " 

*'  No  ;  not  for  years,  not  for  days,  not  for  hours.  He  is  no 
nmre  hev  plighted  husband  than — than  you  are.  Ah  !  you  feel 
that !  "  She  laughed  bitterly  as  she  saw  him  wince.  "  You 
have  been,  in  the  best  years  of  her  life,  what  he  never  was — 
Lady  Cecil's  lover.  Oh,  I  know  more  than  you  think,  Captain 
Redmond  O'Donnell,  of  that  litde  Irish  episode  six  years  old. 
You  saved  her  life  at  the  risk  of  your  own,  and  fell  in  love  with 
her  afterwards.  Very  pretty,  very  romantic — a  very  old  story 
indeed,  /know,  but  Sir  Arthur  does  not.  He  is  not  in  love 
with  Lady  Cecil  now  ;  do  )'ou  think  it  will  help  love  on  to  hear 
tha^  slory  of  her  youth — that  story  she  will  never  tell  him  ?  " 

Redmond  O'Donnell's  face  had  grown  cold  and  set  as  stone. 
To  the  suppressed  passion  in  her  face,  in  her  eyes,  in  her  tone, 
he  was  deaf  and  blind.  If  he  had  be'i'n  told  Miss  Herncastle 
was  rightful  heiress  to  the  crown  of  England,  it  would  have  as- 
tonished him  less — he  would  have  believed  it  more  easily — than 
that,  all  unwiUingly,  she  had  learned  to  love  him. 

*'  You  do  Lady  Cecil  great  injustice.  Miss  Herncastle,"  he 
answered,  with  chill  sternness,  "  in  bringing  her  name  into  this 
discussion  at  all.  You  wrong  her  more  by  your  confounded 
suspicions.  Whether  she  is,  or  is  not,  the  betrothed  bride  of 
Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  this  at  least  is  certain — there  is  no  page 
in  her  past  life  that  he  and  all  the  world  are  not  free  ♦^o  read. 
More,  perhaps,"  looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  "  than  all  can 
say.  rdid  her  the  service  you  speak  of  in  Ireland,  six  years 
ago ;  is  there  anything  in  that  to  conceal  ?  And  there  the 
'  story,'  as  you  phrase  it,  begins  and  ends.  Your  suspicions 
are  all  unfounded,  all  unjust.  Whatever  my  folly  may  have 
been,  in  tha  past  time  of  a  most  foolish  youth,  to  her  I  have 
been  ever  an  acquaintance — a  friend,  perhaps — no  more. 
Gratitude  she  gave  me — never  more." 

'•Never  moi-  !"  She  turned  her  scornful  face  away,  and 
looked  out  at  the  opal  evening  sky.  "  Ah,  well,  humility  is  a 
virtue  but  few  i)ossess ;  let  us  cherish  it  when  we  find  it  in  an 
Irishman,  of  all  men.  Repeat  that  version  of  the  story — be- 
lieve it  if  you  will.     And  she  gave  you — gratitude.    What  is  it 


ROSE   O'DONNELVS  SECRET. 


407 


for  one 
-idden  fire 
!  " 

rprised. 
erncastle, 
usband  of 

He  is  no 
!  you  feel 
;.  "  You 
/er  was — 
,  Captain 
years  old. 
love  with 

old  story 
ot  in  love 
in  to  hear 
him  ?  " 
:  as  stone. 
her  tone, 
[erncastle 
1  have  as- 
ily — than 

dstle,"  he 
!  into  this 
nfounded 

bride  of 
>  no  page 

♦^o  read, 
an  all  can 
six  years 
here  the 
uspicions 
nay  have 
er  I  have 
lo   more. 

way,  and 
lility  is  a 
:1  it  in  an 
ory— be- 
Vhat  is  it 


she  gives  Sir  Arthur  ?  What  is  it  he  gives  her  ?  Love,  do 
you  think?  But  she  is  an  earl's  daughter,  and  brought  up  in 
the  codes  and  the  creeds  of  her  order.  She  will  marry  him 
and  his  ancient  name,  and  his  long  rent-roll,  if  he  asks  her. 
If  /  You  talk  of  temptation,  Captain  O'Donnell — is  there  no 
temptation,  think  you,  here  for  me  ?  " 

"To  what?"  His  cold  eyes,  his  cold  tones,  cut  her  like 
knives.  "  To  blind  and  fascinate  him,  to  make  his  life  misera- 
ble, to  put  him  from  her,  to  make  him  a  wanderer  over  the 
earth,  to  spoil  the  happiness  of  two  lives  ?  That,  perhaps,  it  is 
in  your  power  to  do—  10  more.  If  you  think  he  will  ever 
marry  you — a  woman  of  whom  he  knows  nothing — a  woman 
who,  I  am  very  certain,  has  her  own  good  reasons  for  hiding 
her  past — you  mistake  him  entirely.  Sir  Arthur  is  a  very 
proud  man  ;  he  comes  of  a  very  proud  race.  The  baronets  of 
Tregenna  may  have  married  governesses  before  now — never 
adventuresses." 

She  turned  upon  him  with  eyes  of  fire  : 

"Captain  O'Donnell!" 

"  I  have  said  it,  Miss  Herncastle — you  force  it  from  me. 
Do  you  think  his  infatuation  will  lead  him  into  asking  you  to 
be  his  wife,  before  inquiring  into  your  past  ?  Will  that  past 
bear  inquiring  into  ?  Sooner  than  see  it,  I,  myself,  would  show 
you  to  him  as  you  are." 

He  was  still  lying  back  in  the  easy-chair,  his  tone  quiet,  but 
his  mouth,  his  eyes,  relentless  as  doom.  No  grim  old  judge, 
with  the  black  cap  on,  pronouncing  sentence  of  death  on  the 
wretch  in  the  dock,  could  have  looked  more  sternly  relentless 
than  he.  * 

Her  whole  mood  changed  ;  the  swift  dark  anger  died  out  of 
her  eyes,  she  sank  slowly  back  in  her  seat,  her  hands  folded 
before  her,  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Captain  O'Donnell,"  she  said,  and  there  was  a  strange, 
weary,  wistful  pathos  in  her  voice,  "  1  asked  you  before — I  ask 
you  again — what  have  I  ever  done  to  you  that  you  should  be 
the  one  to  hunt  me  down  ?  " 

Something  in  her  tone — something  in  her  look — dreary,  for- 
lorn— touched  him  in  spite  of  himself. 

"And  I  answer  again — nothing.  Miss  Herncastle.  I  have 
no  wish  .to  turn  amateur  detective,  believe  me.  But  Sir 
Arthur  Tregenna  is  my  friend — I  cannot  see  him  duped  with- 
out raising  my  voice  to  warn.  You  have  brought  discord  and 
wretchedness  enough  to  this  house  c:lready  ;  go  and  leave  it, 


4o8 


ROSE   O'DONNELVS  SECRET, 


\ !           : 

^  '  \*    i  1 

III 

^1 

W 

aSnp 

satisfied  with  what  you  have  done.  All  that  I  suspect  I  shall 
keep  to  myself;  and  I  suspect  a  great  deal.  But  go;  leave 
Sir  Arthur  to  his  duty — leave  Sir  Peter  free  from  ghosts,  and  if 
it  is  in  my  power  to  aid  or  help  you  in  any  way,  command  me. 
But  all  this  ])lotting,  this  working  in  the  dark,  must  end,  or 
else — "     He  paused. 

"  Or  else  it  is  war  between  you  and  me — is  that  it,  Captain 
O'Donnell?  You  will  devote  your  man's  strength  and  your 
man's  intellect  to  hunting  down  and  driving  from  Scarswood, 
one  poor  woman  who  has  never  harmed  yoii — who  earns  the 
bread  she  eats,  and  who  only  takes  the  goods  her  gods  provide. 
Very  well,  sir,  war  let  it  be.  Do  your  worst — I  will  do  mine. 
You  have  called  me  an  adventuress — prove  it,  if  you  can.  For 
your  other  insinuations,  I  pass  them  over  in  silence.  The  day 
may  come  when  you  will  find  I  have  been  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning ;  when  even  your  spotless,  peerless,  perfect  Lady 
Cecil  may  descend  from  her  pedestal,  and  be  known  as  she  is. 
As  she  is.  I  repeat  i%  Captain  O'Donnell.  No  need  for  you 
to  do  batde  in  her  behalf.  By  your  own  showing,  she  is  noth- 
ing to  you.  Do  your  worst,  I  repeat — spy  upon  me  when  and 
how  you  choose,  overhear  all  I  say,  suspect  every  word  and 
action,  and  repeat  everything  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna.  I  tell 
you  it  will  be  labor  lost — he  loves  me.  You  hear,  most  gal- 
lant of  Irishmen,  most  courtly  of  gentlemen — loves  me,  and  as 
surely  as  1  will  it,  will  one  day  make  me  his  wife.  Tell  him 
this  also,  if  you  choose — it  will  be  in  keeping  with  the  rest. 
And  I  thought  you  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman  !  Let  me  pass, 
Captain  O'Donnell — I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you." 

Otice  again  it  flashed  out,  the  passion  he  had  awakened 
witiiin  her,  the  jealousy  he  had  aroused,  and  he  never  saw  it. 
He  saw  only  an  angry  and  utterly  base  woman  at  bay,  and  his 
heart  hardened  toward  her. 

"  In  one  moment,"  he  said.  "  Believe  me,  I  have  little  wish 
to  prolong  this  interview.  I  have  given  you  your  one  chance, 
and  you  have  refused  it.  It  shall  be  no  fault  of  mine  if  Sir 
Arthur  Tregenna  works  his  own  life-long  misery.  I  warn  you 
fairly — for  his  sake,  for  Lady  Cecil's,  for  Sir  Peter's.  I  shall 
show  you  to  them  as  you  are.  One  moment  more,  Miss 
Ilerncastle,  if  you  please.  In  overhearing  your  remark,  in 
passing  out  of  the  churchyard,  I  also  heaid  you  say,  '  Marie 
De  Lansac  is  here.'  Now,  what  has  Marie  De  Lansac — Rose 
O'Donnell — to  do  with  that  man  or  you?" 

Her  hand  was  on  the  handle  of  the  '^.oor.     She  stopped  and 


ROSE   O'DONNELDS  SECRET 


409 


turned  to  him,  a  smile  of  malicious  triumph  on  her  face  and  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  "you  heard  that,  did  you  ?  What  is  Marie 
De  Lansac  to  me?  Captain  O'Donnell,  you  accuse  me  of 
the  guilt  of  having  secrets  and  mysteries  in  my  life.  I  wonder 
if  1  am  alone  in  that  ?  1  wonder  if  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  knew 
every  episode  in  my  lady's  career?  I  wonder  if  her  papa  and 
her  friends  are  free  to  read  every  page  in  Lady  Cecil's  life  ?  I 
wonder  if  Redmond  O'Donnell  knov  s  every  incident  connected 
with  his  pretty,  gentle  sister's  New  Orleans  existence?  What 
woman  tells  father,  lover,  brother — aWi  Not  one  among  all 
the  millions  on  earth.  Captain  O'Donnell,  answer  me  this : 
Did  you  ever  he  ..  from  your  sister's  lips  the  name  of  Gaston 
Dantree?" 

"  Gaston  Dantree."  The  name  had  a  familiar  sound  to  him, 
but  at  that  moment  he  could  not  tell  where  he  had  heard  it — 
certainly  not  from  his  sister.  The  derisive  eyes  of  the  gov- 
erness were  upon  him ;  he  could  not  understand  the  mocking 
triumph  of  their  glance. 

"I  have  heard  that  name,"  he  answered,  "but  not  from 
Rose." 

"  I  thought  not.  Then  I  tell  no  tales.  I  keep  my  own 
secrets,  and  let  others  keep  theirs.  Captain  O'Donnell,  the 
dressing-bell  rings.     I  wish  you  good-afternoon." 

She  was  gone  as  she  spoke.  Five  minutes  after,  while  he 
still  sat  there,  mystified,  annoyed,  perplexed,  an  opposite 
door  opened,  and  Lady  Cecil  came  in. 

She  was  dressed  to-day  in  some  pale,  sea-green,  filmy  stuff, 
that  floated  about  her  like  a  cloud,  a  little  foam  of  point-lace 
here  and  there.  A  cluster  of  trailing  grasses  and  half-crushed 
pink  buds  clasped  the  soft  corsage  ;  trailing  spravs  of  green, 
and  a  rose  of  palest  blush,  freshly  gathered,  adorned  the  light 
brown  hair.  She  looked  like  a  lily,  a  naiad  queen,  like  a  sea 
goddess,  lacking  the  shells  and  sea-water.  A  more  striking 
contrast  to  the  woman  who  had  left  him  could  hardly  be  con- 
ceived. And  she  was  not  pledged  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — 
had  never  been.  For  one  moment  a  thrill  of  exquisite  delight 
filled  him  at  the  thought — the  next  he  could  have  laughed  aloud 
at  his  own  folly. 

"  As  though  it  could  matter  to  me  if  to-morrow  were  her 
wedding  day,"  he  thought.  "  Free  or  fettered,  she  is  Lord  Ruys- 
land's  daughter,  and  1  am — a  Captain  of  Chasseurs,  with  no 
hope  of  being  anything  else  to  my  dying  day." 

18  .    .  • 


410 


ROSE   0' DONNELV S  SECRET. 


"  You  here,  Captain  O'Donnell  ?  "  she  said.     "  I  did  not  know 

it.    I  came  in  search  of "  she  paused,  and  a  faint  cclor  rose 

in  the  Hly  face.  "They  told  nie  Miss  Hcrncastle  was  here," 
she  added,  hastily  ;  "they  must  have  been  mistaken." 

"  No,"  the  chasseur  answered,  coolly,  "  they  were  not.  Miss 
Herncastle  has  been  here — with  me.  She  only  left  a  moment 
before  you  came  in." 

The  faint  color  deepened  in  her  cheeks.  She  turned  and 
moved  away  again. 

"  I  wished  to  see  her.  It  does  not  matter — it  will  do  after 
dinner.  You  dine  with  us,  I  hope.  Captain  O'Donnell,  or  do 
you  run  away  at  the  sound  of  the  dinner-bell  ?  You  did  it  a 
day  or  two  ago,  and  Ginevra  was  very  angry." 

She  spoke  coldly,  voice  and  manner  alike,  unconsciously 
frigid.  And  without  waiting  for  reply,  she  reopened  the  door 
and  walked  away. 

"Miss  Herncastle  there — with  him  !"  she  thought,  a  sudden, 
swift,  hot  pang,  that  all  Sir  Arthurs  defalcation  had  never 
brought  there,  sharp  at  her  heart ;  "  it  is  well  the  days  of  duel- 
ing are  exploded,  or  Sir  Arthur  might  be  tempted  to  call  him 
out." 

She  hated  herself  for  the  hot  anger  she  felt.  What  was  it  to 
her? — what  could  it  matter  to  her,  with  whom  Captain  O'Don- 
nell chose  to  amuse  himself?  He  was  nothing  to  her,  of 
course — nothing.  And  she  was  less  than  nothing  to  him  ;  all 
her  beauty,  all  her  witcheries  were  powerless  here,  and  he  took 
good  care  to  let  her  see  it.  But  that  tlush  was  still  on  her  face, 
that  sharp  pain  still  beneath  the  sea-green  corsage,  beneath 
laces  and  roses,  when  she  took  her  place  at  dinner. 

Captain  O'Donnell  dined  with  the  family,  the  governess  did 
not.  He  looked  at  his  sister  across  a  tall  epergne  of  flowers. 
She  was  talking  to  Squire  Talbot — Squire  Talbot,  whom  the 
soft,  sad  eyes  and  wistful  little  face  had  been  enthralling  of  late, 
and  wondered  what  Miss  Herncastle  could  have  meant. 
"Gaston  Dantree,"  he  mused;  he  recalled  the  name  well 
enough  now — Katherine  Dangerfield's  dastardly  lover,  of 
course.  He  had  been  a  native  of  New  Orleans ;  had  Rose 
known  him  there  ?  Had  her  singular  whim  of  visiting  this 
place  anything  to  do  with  knowing  him?  The  mere  suspicion 
made  \\\\\\  warm  and  uncomfortable. 

•'I'll  ask  her  after  dinner,"  he  thought,  "and  she  ivill  t.;ll 
me.  Can  he  have  had  anything  to  do  with  the  change  in  her  ? 
— the  gloom,  the  trouble  of  her  life,  that  has  preyed  on  her 


ROSE   O'DONN'ELDS  SECRET. 


4" 


r^ou  did  it  a 


to  him  ;  all 


mind,  and  broken  her  health  ?     And  if  so,  how  comes  Miss 
Herncastle  to  know  it  ?  " 

The  ladies  left  t  le  table.  Redmond  O'Donnell  sat  very  si- 
lent and  thoughtful  during  the  "wine  and  walnut"  lapse,  be- 
fore the  gentlemen  joined  him.     Fate  favored  him  upon  this 


occasion.     Squire   Talbot    was 


turnmg 


Lady   Dangerfield's 


music,  and  his  sister,  quite  alone,  with  a  web  of  rose-jiink  net- 
ting in  her  hands,  sat  in  the  recess  of  the  bay-window.  He 
crossed  over  and  joined  her  at  once. 

"  Rose,"  he  began,  speaking  abruptly,  "  how  much  longer 
do  you  propose  remaining  in  Sussex  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  surprised  at  the  sudden  and  unexpected 
question,  a  little  startled  by  the  dark  gravity  of  his  face. 

"Remain?  I — ^"  she  faltered  and  stopped.  *' Are  ^^«  anxious 
to  go,  Redmond?    If  so,  of  course — " 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  go  until  the  object  that  brought  you  here 
is  an  object  accomplished.  Rose.  That  you  have  some  object 
in  insisting  upon  coming  to  this  particular  place  I  am  quite 
certain.    More,  perhaps  1  can  partly  guess  what  that  object 


is." 


The  rose-hued  netting  dropped  in  her  lap,  her  great,  dark 
eyes  dilated  in  sudden  terror.  " 

♦'  Redmond  ! " 

"  You  have  not  chosen  to  make  me  your  confidant.  Rose, 
and  I  ask  for  no  one's  secrets,  not  even  yours.  Still  you  will 
permit  me  to  ask  one  question  :  Did  you  ever  know  Gaston 
Dantree  ?" 

Suddenly,  sharply,  without  warning,  the  question  came  upon 
her.  One  faint,  wailing  cry,  then  her  hands  flew  up  and  cov- 
ered her  face.     He  was  answered. 

No  one  had  heard  that  suppressed  cry ;  ♦^^he  curtains  of  the 
recess  hid  them. 

He  sat  and  looked  at  her  almost  as  pitilessly  as  he  had  looked 
at  Miss  Herncastle  two  hours  before.  In  his  stern  justice  Red- 
mond O'Donnell  could  be  very  hard — to  himself  as  well  as  to 
others. 

"  1  am  answered,"  he  said — "you  have  known  Gaston  Dan- 
tree.  He  was  a  Louisianian — you  knew  him  in  New  Orleans. 
He  disappeared  here :  at  Castleford  the  last  trace  of  him  is  to 
be  found.  Was  it  to  discover  that  trace  you  came  and  brought 
me   here  ?     Look   up.  Rose,"  he   said,  sternly,  "  and  answer 


me. 


She  feared  as  well  as  loved  him.    Habitually  he  was  very 


412 


ROSJ^   O'DO^^NELVS  SECRET. 


^! 


i;;iil   I 


gentle  with  her,  with  all  women,  biit^  let  that  stubborn  sense  of 
ri'^ht  and  wron'j;  of  his  be  roused  and  he  became  as  iron.  Her 
hands  dro])i)ed  at  his  stern  conuuand,  her  [)oor,  pale  face,  all 
drawn  and  white  with  terror  and  trouble,  looked  piteously  up 
at  its  judge. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  he  ordered,  his  lips  set.  "It  is  too 
late  for  further  prevarication.     You  knew  this  man  ?  " 

"  I  knew  him  !  " 

"  In  ^c\\  Orleans,  before  he  canie  here  to  court  and  desert, 
like  the  craven-hearted  dastard  he  was,  Katherine  Danger- 
field  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

His  lips  set  themselves  harder  under  his  long  mustache,  his 
blue  eyes  looked  stern  as  steel. 

"  I  said  I  asked  for  no  one's  secrets,  not  even  yours.  I  do, 
Rose.     What  was  he  to  you  ?  " 

She  drew  away  from  him  once  again,  hiding  her  shrinking  face 
in  her  hands.  A  dry,  tortured  sob  was  her  only  answer.  But 
her  judge  and  arraigner  never  relented. 

"  Was  he  a  lover  of  yours  ?  " 

She  made  a  mute  gesture  of  assent. 

"  A  false  one,  of  course  ?  " 

**  Heaven  help  me — yes." 

A  pause ;  then — 

"Rose,  did  M.  De  Lansac  know?" 

"  He  suspected.     He  never  knew." 

"  Did  he  favor  Dantree  ?  " 

"  No  :  he  forbade  him  the  house." 

"  And  you — you.  Rose  O'Donnell,  stooped  to  meet  him  in 
secret — to  make  and  keep  assignations.     You  did  this  ?  " 

Again  that  sobbing  sound,  again  that  shrinking  away  of  face 
and  ligure.  It  was  reply  enough.  If  Lady  Cecil  Clive  had 
seen  the  face  of  the  Redmond  O'Donnell  who  sat  in  judgment 
there  upon  the  lister  he  loved,  she  would  have  been  puzzled 
indeed  to  find  much  similarity  between  it  and  the  face  of  that 
other  Redmond  O'Donnell  among  the  Fermanagh  hills.  He 
loved  his  only  sister  very  dearly  ;  he  had  held  her  a  "  little  lower 
than  the  angels,"  and  he  found  her  to-day  with  a  secret  of  deceit 
and  wrong-doing  in  her  life — found  her  false  and  subtle,  like 
the  rest  of  her  sex.  Was  there  no  truth  in  woman — no  honor 
in  mar — left  on  the  earth.  He  sat  dead  silent ;  it  was  bitter  to 
him  weu  nigh  as  the  bitterness  of  death. 

His  silence  frightened  her,  cut  her,  as  no  stinging  reproach 


ROSE   O'DONNELVS  SECRET. 


413 


could  have  done.  Once  again  she  lifted  her  face,  all  white  and 
\  iteous,  to  iiis. 

"Redmond!"  she  cried,  with  a  great  gush,  "why  are  you 
£0  hard,  so  bitter  ?  Why  do  you  judge  nie  so  harshly  ?  I  was 
very  young ;  I  did  not  know  what  distrust  meant,  and  I — 1 — 
loved  him  with  all  my  heart.  He  said  he  loved  me,  and  I — oh, 
Redmond  ;  it  is  nine  years  ago — I  believed  him.  I  was 
warned ;  others — older  and  wiser,  read  nim  aright — told  me  it 
was  the  prospective  heiress  of  M.  De  ], ansae's  millions  he 
loved — not  Rose  O'Donnell.  But  I  loved  and  trusted,  and 
could  not  believe.  1  met  him  in  spite  of  my  grandfather's 
commands,  1  received  his  letters — to  my  siiame  1  own  it.  Then 
our  grandfather  married — then  Clarence  was  born,  and  I — 
learned  the  truth  cX  la^t.  It  was  all  as  they  said — he  was  false, 
base,  mercenary  to  the  core,  was  the  heir,  not  I,  and  he  left 
me.  Left  me  without  a  word,  and  caine  here  to  England. 
Still,  without  a  word,  he  returned  me  my  letters  and  j^icture. 
Then — the  next  thing  1  heard  of  him — 1  saw  the  mournful  story 
of  Katherine  Dangerheld  in  the  English  papers  my  grandfather 
received.  From  that  time  1  have  heard  nothing — nothing.  I 
should  have  told  you,  perhaps,  but — it  is  not  so  easy  a  story  to 
tell — the  story  of  one's  own  folly  and  humiliation." 

The  soft,  sad  voice  ceased ;  the  pale,  drooping  face  turned 
far  away  from  him  in  the  silvery  dusk.  But  in  his  face 
there  was  little  relenting,  in  his  voice  little  softness,  when  he 
spoke. 

"  The  folly  of  the  past  I  could  forgive  ;  the  folly  of  the  pres- 
ent, Jio.  That  you  took  a  giil's  fancy  for  a  man's  handsome 
face,  and  were  the  dupe  of  his  false  words,  might  be  overlooked 
— is  very  natural  in  a  girl  of  sixteen.  That  a  woman  of  five- 
and-twenty  should  still  cling  to  the  memory  of  so  despicable  a 
wretch,  still  pursue  him,  and  drag  me,  in  my  ignorance  of  your 
secret,  into  that  pursuit — that  I  cannot  forgive." 

He  arose  as  he  spoke,  angry  exceedingly,  wounded,  grieved 
inexpressibly.  She  seized  his  hand  in  a  sort  of  desperation, 
and  clung  to  it. 

"Redmond,  you — you  don't  understand.  It  is  not  that.  I 
don't  care  for  him ;  it  is  all  I  can  do  to  pray  to  be  kept 
from  hating  his  memory,  whether  he  be  alive  or  dead.  It  is 
that — tiiat  I — ^"  Her  courage  failed  as  she  looked  up  into  that 
iron  face.  "  Redmond  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  who  has  been  talking  to 
you — who  has  told  you  this  ?  " 

"  Miss  Herncastle,"  he  answered.     "  Your  secret,  it  would 


414 


ROSE   O'DOXX/.LL'S  SECRET. 


\  i.li , 


" 


;:! 


!     I  <\ 


i 


seem,  has  all  along  been  no  secret  to  her.     She  bade  tne  ask 
you  two  hours  ago,  what  you  knew  of  (lasfon  Dantree." 

"Miss  Ilerncastle!  "  she  could  but  just  re[)eat  the  name  in 
her  ungovernable  surjjrise. 

"  Miss  1  lerncastle,"  he  repeated,  still  very  coldly.  "  If  I 
were  in  your  place,  I  think  I  should  conie  to  an  understandirig 
with  that  lady.  It  was  against  my  will  I  ever  came  to  iMigkind. 
If  I  had  dreamed  of  your  object,  I  certainly  would  never  have 
set  foot  in  it.  IJut  1  trusted  Rose  O'Donnell.  That  is  all  over 
now — it  is  only  one  other  lesson  added  to  the  rest.  When  your 
inquiries  concerning  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree  are  at  an  end,  let 
me  know,  and  we  will  depart  for  France." 

Again  he  was  turning  away,  hurt,  angry,  grieved  beyond  words 
to  say.     Again  she  caught  his  hand  and  hehl  him  fast. 

"Redmond!  brother — friend!  Oh,  iny  (lod,  why  will  you 
judge  me  so  hardly?  I  have  deserved  it,  ])erha|)s,  but — you 
break  my  heart.  If  you  knew  all  I  have  suffered,  you  might 
pity — you  might  forgive." 

He  withdrew  his  hand,  and  tui.-'cd  sternly  away. 

"I  have  told  you — the  past  I  c*.  ,' i  forgive  easily;  the  pres- 
ent I  cannot." 

And  then  he  was  gone.  For  a  moment  she  sat  looking  after 
him  with  eyes  of  passionate  pleading.  Then  the  pride  of 
blood,  latent  in  her,  arose.  He  was  hard,  he  was  cruel,  he 
was  merciless.  If  he  had  ever  loved,  himself,  or  suffered,  he 
would  not  be  so  pitiless  to  her.  I.anty  was  wrong — neither 
Lady  Cecil  nor  any  other  woman  had  ever  touched  his  heart 
of  granite. 

She  sat  wounded — humbled — silent.  Then  all  at  once  the 
recollection  of  Miss  Herncastle  Hashed  upon  her.  She  had 
told  him — she  knew  all.  All  I  Rose  O'Donnell  turned  white 
and  cold  from  head  to  foot.     Did  Miss  Herncastle  know  all? 

She  rose  up  hurriedly  and  looked  down  the  lighted  length  of 
the  spacious  drawing-rooms.  No  ;  Miss  Herncastle  was  no- 
where to  be  seen.  Should  she  seek  her  in  her  room  ?  She 
stood  for  an  instant  irresolute.  Squire  Talbot  espied  her  and 
turned  to  cross  over.  She  saw  him  in  time — flight  was  her 
only  escape.  She  stepped  through  the  open  window  and  dis- 
appeared. 

The  tall  trees  of  the  lime-walk  stood  up  black  in  the  ivory 
light  of  the  moon.  Slie  turned  toward  it,  then  as  suddenly 
stopped.  For  from  its  somber  shadows  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 
and  Miss  Herncastle  walked. 


ROSE   O'DONNELVS  SECRET. 


415 


L"  iiaiiiL'  III 


The  meeting  had  been  purely  ncciclental,  on  his  part,  at 
least.  \\<i  had  gone  forth  to  smoke  a  cigar,  and  (was  it  by  ac 
cident?)  Miss  llerncastle  had  unexpectedly  a|)pi'art'd  upon  the 
scene.  Her  head  was  aching — she  had  come  out  for  the  air. 
A  black  lace  scarf,  artistically  draped  like  a  S[)anish  manliUa, 
covered  her  head  and  shoulders,  one  white,  shapely  hand  held 
it  in  its  place.  A  crimson  rose,  half  shattered,  gleamed  above 
one  pink  ear.  She  had  never  looked  better  in  her  life — Sir 
Arthur's  eyes  pretty  plainly  told  her  that.  And  having  "  met 
by  chance  the  usual  way,"  what  more  natural  than  that  they 
should  take  a  turn  down  the  lime-walk  together. 

"Do  you  return  to  the  drawing  room  ?"  Rose  heard  him 
say.      "It  is  beyond  all  comparison  i)leasanter  here,  but — " 

"But  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  may  be  missed,"  Miss  Ilerncas- 
lle's  sweet  voice  supplemented.  "No,  Sir  Arthur,  I  shall  go 
to  my  room.  Don't  let  me  detain  you  an  instant  longer. 
Thanks  again,  for  the  books  and  the  music,  and  good-night." 

Music  and  books !  He  had  been  making  her  presents  then 
— what  would  Lady  Cecil  say  to  this  ?  She  bade  him  good- 
night with  her  brightest  smile,  waved  a  vvliite  hand  in  the  pearly 
light,  and  turned  with  the  slow,  stately,  graceful  motion  pecu- 
liar to  her,  and  walked  away. 

He  stood,  a  strange  expression  of  yearning  in  eyes  and 
face,  and  watched  the  tall  figure  from  sight.  Then  he  turned 
reluctantly — Rose  could  see  it — ste|)ped  through  the  window 
wiience  she  herself  had  emerged,  and  was  gone. 

"  Miss  Herncastle  !" 

Rose  O'Donnell's  clear  voice,  ringing  along  the  silence, 
came  to  the  ear  of  the  governess.  She  'iiad  reached  the 
King's  Oak,  and  was  standing,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  on  the  very 
spot  where  Sir  Peter  had  seen  the  ghost.  She  turned  at  the 
sound  of  her  name,  the  smile  fading  away,  and  confronted  the 
speaker. 

"  You  called,  Miss  O'Donnell  ?" 

"  I  called.  Miss  Herncastle.  I  wish  to  speak  a  word  to 
you.  I  will  not  detain  you  an  instant,"  as  the  governess 
shivered  ever  so  little  in  the  soft  night  air.  "  Two  hours  ago 
you  bade  my  brother  ask  me  what  I  knew  of  Gaston  Dantree. 
Miss  Herncastle,  in  my  turn  1  ask,  what  do  you  know  ?  " 

She  looked  more  like  her  brother,  as  she  spoke,  than  the 
governess  had  ever  seen  her.     She  came  of  a  bold  and  brave 
race,  and  some  of  the  fire  of  that  race  shone  in  her  eyes  now 
Miss  Herncastle  returned  her  gaze  steadily. 


4i6 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


"You  really  wish  me  to  answer  that  question  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  or  else  I  had  not  asked  it.  Did  you  know  Gas« 
ton  Dantree  in  New  Orleans  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  Gaston  Dantree  in  New  Orleans  in  my 
life." 

"  In  England  then  ?  " 

Miss  Herncastle  stood  lookmg  at  her,  making  no  reply. 

"You  heard  me?"  Rose  O'Donnell  repeated;  "what  do 
}ou  know  of  Gaston  Dantree  and — and  me)  " 

Miss  Herncastle's  lips  opened  to  answer  with  that  excellent 
brevity  of  speech  that  characterized  her. 

"  Everything." 

"  Miss  Herncastle  !" 

"  It  is  your  own  fault,  and  your  brother's,  Miss  O'Donnell, 
since  by  that  name  you  jirefcr  to  be  known." 

"That  name  !  "  she  whispered  the  two  words,  came  a  step 
nearer,  her  eyes  dilating,  her  face  ashen  white. 

"  Miss  Herncastle,"  she  cried,  "what  do  you  mean?  What 
do  you  know  ?  " 

"  This  !  "  the  voice  of  the  governess  rose,  her  mouth  grew 
set  and  stern — "  f/iis — that  if  Gaston  Dantree  be  alive,  you 
are  Gaston  Dantree' s  wife  !  " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


•       KNIGHT   AND    PAGE. 

T  was  a  noticeable  fact — noticed  chiefly  by  Sir  Arthiu" 
Tregenna  and  Squire  Talbot — that  neither  Miss  Hern* 
castle  nor  Miss  O'Donnell  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room.  For  Captain  O'Donnell,  he  did  not  even 
perceive  his  sister's  absence.  He  sat  a  little  apart  from  the 
others,  turning  over  a  book  of  photographed  celebrities,  and 
never  seeing  one  of  them.  One  question  was  revolving  itself 
over  and  over  again  in  his  brain  until  he  was  dizzy.  Had 
Katherine  Dangerfield  died  six  years  ago,  or  had  she  not  ?  If 
she  had  not,  who  then  lay  in  that  quiet  grave  in  the  Methodist 
churchyard?  If  she  /lad,  who  then,  in  the  name  of  all  that 
was  wonderful,  was  Helen  Herncastle  ?  He  thought,  till  his 
brain  was  dazed. 


ti^g 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


417 


now  GaS' 

IS    in  my 


■eply. 
what  do 

excellent 


)'Donnen, 

lie  a  step 

n  ?     niiat 

outh  grew 
alive,  you 


Sir  Arthur 
liss  Hern* 
:  drawing- 
not  even 
from  the 
rities,  and 
zing  itself 
zy.  Had 
not?  If 
Methodist 
'f  all  that 
It,  till  his 


Lady  Cecil  Clive,  with  Sir  Arthur  seated  near  her,  glanced 
furtively  across  the  length  of  the  drawing-room  at  Redmond 
O'Donnell's  dark,  tired  face  and  somber,  blue  eyes,  and 
wondered,  with  a  sort  of  awe,  of  what  he  could  be  thinking  so 
intently  and  sternly. 

"  There  is  but  one  way,"  he  said  to  himself,  moodily ;  "  a 
way  I  hate  to  take,  and  yet — for  every  one's  sake — for  Rose's 
• — for  Trcgenna's — for  Sir  Peter's — it  should  be  taken.  If 
Katherine  Dangerfield  was  buried  six  years  ago,  Katherine 
Dangerfield  cannot  be  here.  My  mind  is  made  uji."  He  rose 
with  the  air  of  one  who  shakes  off  a  burden.  "  I'll  wonder  no 
longer.  No  possible  harm  can  come  of  it,  and  it  will  put  an 
end  to  this  juggling  ghost-seeing — this  mystification.  I  lido  it. 
And  I'll  begin  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning." 

He  took  his  leave  and  went  home.  It  was  a  brilliant  sum 
mer  night,  and,  as  he  neared  the  fields,  he  stopped  and  lookec 
suspiciously  around.  But  if  he  looked  for  Miss  Herncastle,  i^o 
Miss  Herncastle  was  to  be  seen.  It  was  long  past  midnight 
when  he  reached  the  Silver  Rose,  but  even  then  he  did  not  go 
to  bed.  He  lit  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  by  the  open  window  to 
smoke  and  think.  The  town  was  very  quiet,  the  lights  all  out 
— the  stars  and  Captain  O'DonncU  had  the  peace  and  beauty 
of  the  sweet  July  night  all  to  themselves.  He  sat  there,  darkly 
thoughtful,  for  over  an  hour.  When  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed 
he  had  thought  it  all  out ;  his  whole  plan  of  action  lay  clear 
before  him. 

At  ten  o'clock  next  morning  he  began.  He  took  his  way 
through  the  town,  to  that  pleasant  cottage  adjoining  the 
churchyard  wherein  Katherine  Dangerfield  six  years  ago  had 
died. 

'*  I  have  warned  her,"  he  thought,  "  and  she  will  not  be 
warned.     She  must  take  the  consequences  now." 

A  family,  named  Wilson,  resided  in  the  cottage  at  present 
— that  nmch  he  had  ascertained  at  his  inn.  They  had  taken 
possession  the  very  week  in  which  Mr.  Otis  had  left,  and 
had  been  there  ever  since.  Mrs.  Wilson,  a  rosy  little  matron, 
answered  the  door  in  person,  and  ushered  her  military  visitor  at 
once  into  the  parlor.  Captain  O'Donnell's  business  with  Mns. 
Wilson  was  very  simple.  He  understood  that  the  servant 
woman  who  had  lived  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Otis,  six  years  ago, 
was  now  in  the  service  of  Mrs.  Wilson.  His  business  was  with 
that  servant — could  he  see  her  a  moment  or  two  in  private  ? 

The  little  mistress  of  the  cottage  opened  two  bright,  brown 
18* 


4i8 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


Il 


J  . 


4t 


eyes  in  surprise,  but  answered  read'ly  in  the  affirmative.  He 
meant  Dorcas,  of  course — Dorcas  had  come  to  her  with  the 
house,  and  Dorcas  was  in  tlie  kitchen  at  present,  and  would 
wait  upon  the  gentleman  at  once.  ' 

Mrs.  Wilson  went  and  Dorcas  came — a  stout,  elderly  woman, 
with  an  intelligent  face. 

"  I  wish  to  obtain  a  few  particulars  concerning  the  sudden 
death  of  a  young  lady  in  this  house  six  years  ago,"  the  chasseur 
began,  plunging  into  his  subject  at  once.  "  You  remember  her, 
of  course  ?     Her  name  was  Katherine  Dangerfield." 

Yes,  Dorcas  remembered  perfectly  well,  remembered  as 
though  it  were  yesterday.  She  had  come  to  the  cottage  late 
in  the  evening — a  cold,  dark  winter  evening  it  was — to  see 
the  sick  young  man,  Mr.  Dantree.  Mr.  Otis  himself  had  let 
her  in.  The  next  thing  she  heard,  half  an  hour  later,  was  Mrs. 
Otis  scream.  Had  rushed  in.  Miss  Dangerfield  was  lying 
then  on  the  sofa,  white  and  still,  and  Dr.  Graves  said  she  was 
dead. 

"  You  saw  her  dead  ?  " 

"  Yes,  poor  dear,  and  a  beautiful  corpse  she  made,  calm,  and 
white,  and  peaceful,  and  looking  more  as  though  she  were 
asleej)  than  dead." 

"  How  long  was  she  kept  here  before  she  was  buried  ?  "  the 
soldier  asked. 

"  Only  two  days,  sir,  and  she  looked  lovely  to  the  last.  I 
remember  her  well,  lying  in  her  coffin,  with  flowers  all  round 
her  like  marble  or  waxwork,  and  misses  a-crying  over  her  and 
master  with  a  face  like  white  stone.  I  saw  it  all,  sir,  saw  the 
coflin-lid  screwed  down,  saw  her  carried  out,  and  a  fine, 
resi)ectable  funeral  she  had — all  the  gentry  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, poor  dear  young  lady." 

"  Huri.ph ! "  Captain  O'Donnell  said,  knitting  his  brows. 
Katherine  Dangerfield  //a^dicd  then,  and  Miss  Herncastle  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  her,  in  spite  of  all  the  astounding 
coincidences.  "  One  question  more,  my  good  woman  ;  how 
long  after  the  funeral  was  it  that  Mr.  Otis  left  this  place  for 
London?" 

"  About  a  month,  sir — yes,  just  a  month.  I  think  they  would 
have  gone  sooner,  but  for  the  unexpected  arrival  of  his  cousin, 
the  sick  young  lady  from  Essex." 

Captain  O'Donnell  had  risen  to  go.  At  these  last  words  he 
suddenly  sat  down  again. 

"  The  sick  young  lady  from  Essex.     Ah  !  I  think  this  may  be 


« 


iil 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


419 


itive.  He 
r  with  the 
and  would 

ly  woman, 

le  sudden 
e  chasseur 
ember  her, 

nbered  as 
)ttage  late 
.s — to  see 
elf  liad  let 
,  was  Mrs. 
was  lying 
Id  she  was 


calm,  and 
she   were 

ied?"  the 

le  last.  I 
i  all  round 
n-  her  and 
>r,  saw  the 
d  a  fine, 
neighbor- 

lis  brows, 
castle  had 
stounding 
nan  ;  how 
place  for 

ley  would 
is  cousin, 

words  he 

is  may  be 


what  I  want  to  hear.     When  did  you  say  the  sick  young  lady 
came  ?  " 

"  On  the  very  identical  night  of  the  funeral,  sir,  and  most  unex- 
pected. I  had  gone  to  bed,  and  .nisses,  she  came  to  my  room 
next  morning  before  I  was  up,  all  white  and  in  a  tremble,  and 
says  to  me,  '  Dorcas,  get  up  at  once  and  heat  water  for  a  bath  ; ' 
and  then  she  sat  d'^wn  in  a  chair,  looking  fit  to  drop.  1  asked 
her  if  any  one  was  sick,  and  she  said  yes,  a  young  lady  who  had 
come  in  the  night,  a  niece  of  hers  from  Essex,  and  who  was 
going  to  stop  with  them  a  few  days.  She  begged  me  to  keep  it 
a  secret.  The  young  lady  was  weak-like  in  her  intellect,  and 
they  would  be  obliged  to  confine  her  to  her  room.  I  promised 
not  to  speak  of  it,  for  misses  she  looked  trembling  and  frightened 
to  death  almost.  And  so  she  was  all  the  time  the  strange 
young  lady  was  in  the  house." 

"  How  long  was  that  ?  " 

"  Not  quite  a  fortnight,  sir ;  and  a  sight  of  bother  she  made 
— all  her  meals  took  up  to  her  room,  and  misses  a-trotting  up 
and  down  all  day  long,  a-waiting  upon  her  herself." 

*'  What  was  she  like — this  young  lady  ?  " 

Dorcas  shook  her  head. 

"  That  I  couldiVt  tell,  sir.  I  never  laid  eyes  on  her,  least- 
wise except  once.  Master  and  misses  they  kept  waiting  on  her, 
all  day  long,  and  misses  she  slept  with  her  in  tlie  same  room  at 
night." 

"  But  you  saw  her  once  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  it  was  by  an  accident,  and  at  night.  I  didn't 
see  her  face.  She  never  stirred  out  all  day  long,  and  at  night  I 
used  to  hear  sounds  of  footsteps,  and  doors  softly  opening  aord 
shutting.  One  night  I  watched,  I  heard  the  house  door  shut 
softly,  and  directly  after  I  espies  master  walking  in  the  back 
garden  with  a  lady  on  his  arm.  It  was  a  cloudy  sort  of  a  night, 
and  I  couldn't  see  her  very  plainly — I  couldn't  see  her  face  at 
all..  She  was  tall,  and  dressed  in  dark  clothes,  and — but  this 
was  only  a  notion  of  mine — if  Miss  Dangerfield  hadn't  been 
dead  and  buried,  I  should  have  said  the  height  and  the  figure 
were  like  hers." 

The  blood  rose  dark  and  red  over  the  sim-browned  face  of 
the  African  soldier.  For  an  instant  his  breath  seemed  fairly 
taken  away. 

"Well?"  he  said  in  a  tense  sort  of  whisper. 

Dorcas  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  said,  "the  very  next  night  after  that  the 


420 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE, 


a   .-■ 


2JI 


sick  young  lady  ran  away.  I  don't  know  whether  they  had 
been  keeping  hjr  against  iier  will  or  not,  but  in  the  dead  of 
night  she  ran  away.  When  misses  awoke  next  morning 
she  foand  the  bed  empty,  the  door  unlocked,  and  Miss  Otis 
(they  called  her  Miss  Otis)  gone.  She  screamed  out  like  one 
crazy,  and  ran  down  in  her  night-clothes  to  master's  room.  I 
saw  him  as  he  came  out,  and  except  when  he  looked  at  Miss 
Dangcrficld  dead  in  her  coffin,  I  never  saw  him  wear  such  a  face  ; 
I  declare  it  frightened  me.  He  searched  the  house  and  the 
garden,  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Then  he  set  otTfor 
the  station,  and  discovered  (1  heard  him  tell  his  mother  so)  that 
a  tall  young  lady,  dressed  in  black  and  closely  veiled,  had  gone 
\\\)  to  London  by  the  very  first  train.  That  same  day,  he  got  a 
telegraph  dispatch  from  London,  and  he  went  up  at  once.  He 
came  back  in  three  days,  looking  dreadfully  gloomy  and  out  of 
spirits.  His  mother  met  him  in  the  hall  and  said,  'Well, 
Henry,  is  she  safe  ? '  in  a  flurried  sort  of  a  way,  and  he  pushed 
her  before  him  into  the  parlor,  and  they  had  a  long  talk.  Miss 
Otis  never  came  back,  and  two  weeks  after  master  and  mistress 
went  up  to  town  themselves  for  good.     That's  all,  sir." 

It  was  quite  enough.  Captain  O'Donnell  rose  again  ;  his 
grave  face  had  resumed  its  usual  habitual  calm  ;  he  had  heard 
all  he  wanted — more  than  he  had  expected.  He  pressed  a  half 
so\ereign  into  Dorcas'  willing  palm,  bade  Mrs.  Wilson  good- 
inorning,  and  departed. 

His  face  was  set  in  a  look  of  fixed,  steady  determination  as 
he  quitted  the  cottage  and  returned  to  Castleford.  He  had 
taken  the  first  step  on  the  road  to  discovery — come  what  might, 
h^  would  go  on  to  the  end  now. 

The  middle  of  the  afternoon  brought  Lanty  Lafferty  to  Scars- 
wood  Park  with  a  note  from  the  captain  to  Miss  Rose.  It  was 
only  a  brief  word  or  two — saying  he  had  gone  up  to  London  by 
the  mid-day  train  and  would  probably  not  return  for  a  couple  of 
days. 

Miss  O'Donnell  was  in  her  room,  suifering  from  a  severe  at- 
tack of  nervous  headache,  when  this  was  brought  her.  She 
looked  at  the  bold,  free  characters — then  pressed  her  face  down 
among  the  pillows  with  a  sort  of  groan. 

"And  I  intended  to  have  told  him  all  to-day,"  she  said,  "as 
I  should  have  told  him  long  ago  if  I  had  noL  been  a  coward. 
To  think — to  think  that  Mis?  Herncastle  should  have  known 
from  the  first.  Ah  !  how  sh.'  11  I  ever  dare  tell  Redmond  the 
pitiful  story  of  my  folly  and  disobedience." 


i 


*S4k.. 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


421 


That  day — Wednesday — passed  very  quietly;  it  was  the 
treacherous  hill  that  precedes  all  storms.  Miss  Herncastle  kept 
her  room;  she  was  putting  still  a  few  finishing  touches  to  that 
lovely  page  dress.  Late  on  Wednesday  evening  came  from 
town  a  large  -ox  addressed  to  Major  Frankland ;  my  lady  and 
the  governess  alone  knew  that  it  contained  Count  Lara's  cos- 
tume. My  lady  was  on  her  best  behavior  to  her  husband — go 
to  the  masquerade  she  was  resolved,  and  brav-  all  consequences. 
Sir  Peter  might  never  find  it  out,  and  if  he  did — well,  if  he  did 
it  would  blow  over,  as  other  storms  had  blown  over,  and  noth- 
ing would  come  of  it. 

There  were  others  who  judged  differently.  Some  inkling 
of  what  was  brewing,  something  of  what  Sir  Peter  had  said, 
reached  the  ears  of  Lord  Ruysland,  and  Lord  Ruysland  had 
ventured  in  the  most  delicate  manner  to  expostulate  with  his 
v/illful  niece.  The  game  was  not  worth  the  candle — the  nias- 
querade  was  not  worth  the  price  she  might  pay  for  it.  Better 
humor  Sir  Peter  and  his  old-fashioned  prejudices  and  throw 
over  Mrs.  Everleigh. 

Ginevra  listened,  her  eyes  compressing — a  gleam  of  invinci- 
ble obstinacy  kindling  in  her  eyes.  She  was  one  of  those  people 
whom  opposition  only  doubly  determined  to  have  their  way. 

"  That  will  do,  Uncle  Raoul.  Your  advice  may  be  good, 
but  I  should  think  your  three-score  years'  experience  of  this  life 
had  taught  you  nobody  ever  yet  relished  good  advice.  I'll  go 
to  the  Everleigh  party — I'll  wear  the  page  dress  and  snap  my 
fingers  at  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield.  His  threats  indeed  !  Poor 
little  manikin  !  it's  rather  late  in  the  day  for  him  to  play  the  role 
of  Bluebeard.     I  shall  go." 

The  earl  shrugged  .\is  shoulders  and  gave  it  up.  He  never 
argued  with  a  woman. 

"  Certainly  you'll  go,  my  dear — I  knew  perfectly  well  how 
useless  remonstrance  would  be,  but  Cecil  would  have  it.  Go, 
by  all  means.  Whatever  happens  I  shall  have  done  my  duty. 
Let  us  hope  Sir  Peter  may  never  hear  it." 

"Your  duty!  The  Earl  of  Ruysland's  duty!"  his  niece 
lauglied  contempUiously.  "  I  wonder  if  all  that  paternal  solici- 
tude is  for  me  or  himself?  If  Sir  Peter  turns  me  out  of  Scars^ 
wood,  you  must  follow.  Uncle  Raoul  !  The  dress  is  made,  and 
my  promise  given.     I  shall  go  to  the  masciuerade." 

Thursday  caine — that  delusive  quiet  still  reigned  at  Scars- 
wood.  When  the  afternoon  train  from  London  rushed  into  the 
Castleford  station  there  appeared  among  the  passengers  Cap- 


422 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE, 


I! 


tain  O'Donnell  and  Major  Frankland  ;  and  placid  and  patrician, 
pacing  tiie  platform,  tlie  Earl  of  Riiysland. 

"Ah,  O'Donnell — back  again.  You  don't  know,  I  suppose, 
that  your  sister  is  quite  indisposed.  I  regret  to  say  such  is  the 
case — nervous  attack  or  something  vague  of  the  sort.  How 
do,  Frankland  ?  On  your  way  to  Scarsvvood  ?  Permit  me  to 
accompany  you  there." 

Va\\.  the  major  drew  back  in  some  trifling  embarrassment. 
He  wasn't  going  to  Scarswood  this  afternoon  ;  to-morrow — ah 
— he  intended  to  put  in  an  appearance.  Would  his  lordship  be 
kind  enough  not  to  mention  having  seen  him  at  all  ? 

The  earl's  serene  blue  eyes  were  tranquilly  fixed  on  the 
major's  face. 

*'  I  understand,"  he  answered,  "  you  are  down  on  the  quiet 
— Sir  Peter  is  to  hear  nothing  of  it  until  after  the  ball  ?  Is  that 
your  little  game,  dear  boy?  You  see  I  know  all  about  it,  and 
my  age  and  my  relationship  to  Lady  Dangerfield  give  me  the 
right  to  interfere.  Now,  my  dear  fellow,  that  masquerade  afiair 
must  be  given  up." 

He  took  the  younger  man's  arm,  speaking  quite  pleasantly, 
and  led  him  away. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  took  the  trouble  to  drive  four  miles 
under  a  blazing  July  sun,  over  a  dusty  July  road,  to  wait  five 
minutes  in  a  stuffy  station  for  the  2:30  express,  dear  boy  ?  To 
meet  and  intercept  you — to  ask  you  as  a  personal  favor  to 
myself,  as  an  act  of  friendship  to  Ginevra,  not  to  go  to  this 
fancy  ball?' 

"My  lord,"  interrupted  Major  Frankland,  uneasily,  "am  I 
to  understand  Lady  Dangerfield  has  commissioned  you  to — " 

"  Lady  Dangerfield  has  commissioned  me  to  do  nothing — ■ 
has  ordered  me,  indeed,  to  stand  aside  and  mind  my  own  busi- 
ness. All  the  same,  1  am  Lady  Dangerfield' s  nearest  male  rel- 
ative, and,  as  such,  bound  to  warn  her  of  her  danger.  Failing 
to  impress  her,  I  come  to  you.  As  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of 
honor — as  an  old  friend  of  poor  Ginevra's,  you  will  perceive  at 
once  the  force  of  what  I  say." 

"  Indeed.  You  will  pardon  my  stupidity  if  I  fail  to  perceive 
it  as  yet." 

"  It  lies  in  a  nutshell.  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  does  you  the 
honor  of  being  infernally  jealous.  TJiat  is  an  old  state  of  things 
— this  masquerade  at  that  woman's  house  has  brought  matters 
to  a  climay.  He  has  told  Lady  Dangerfield  that  if  she  goes 
she  shall  not  return,  and,  my  dear  Frankland,  he  means  it. 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE, 


An 


patrician, 

I  suppose, 
>uch  is  the 
:>rt.  How 
niit  me  to 

rrassment. 
orrow — ail 
ordshiip  be 

d   on   tlie 

tlie  quiet 
?  Is  tiiat 
out  it,  and 
ve  me  the 
radc  aflair 


pleasantly, 

four  miles 

0  wait  five 
boy  ?     To 

1  favor  to 
go  to  this 

ly,  "am  I 
on  to — " 
notliing — 

own  busi- 

:  male  rel- 

Failing 

a  man  of 
erceive  at 

)  perceive 

s  you  the 
?of  thinf's 
t  matters 
she  goes 
means  it. 


They  are  both  as  obstinate  as  the  very  devil — she  to  go,  he  to 
separate  from  her  if  she  does.  Now  this  is  a  very  serious  state 
of  things.  She  is  willfully  blind  to  her  danger,  but  you  will  not 
be.  You  arc  the  only  one  who  can  prevent  this  disastrous  ter- 
mination— on  you  we  all  depend.  There  is  but  one  thing  for 
you  to  do — don't  go.  Stay ! — I  know  what  you  would  say. 
You  have  promised — your  dress  is  in  the  house — Lady  Danger- 
field  will  be  offended,  et  cetera.  Granted — but  is  it  not  better 
to  break  a  promise  that  involves  so  much?  Is  it  not  better  to 
temporarily  offend  Ginevra  than  ruin  her  for  life  ?  Frankland, 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  you  cannot  fail  to  perceive  that  but  one 
course  is  open  to  you — to  withdraw.  Trust  me  to  make  your 
peace.  In  three  weeks  she  will  see  from  what  you  have  saved 
her,  and  thank  you." 

The  gallant  major  gnawed  his  military  mustache  in  gloomy 
perplexity. 

"  Confound  the  little  bloke  ! "  he  burst  out.  "It  isn't  that 
I  particularly  care  to  go  to  this  masquerade  junketing,  but  I 
know  Gin — Lady  Dangerfield  has  set  her  heart  on  it,  and  will 
be  proportionately  disapi)ointed.  Are  you  quite  sure,  my  lord, 
that  he  means  to  carry  out  his  absurd  threat  ?  that  he — oh, 
hang  it  all !  he  couldn't  separate  from  her  for  such  a  tritle  as 
that." 

"  Could  he  not  ?  "  the  earl  answered  quietly.  "  I  find  you 
don't  altogether  appreciate  the  force  of  such  characters  as 
Peter  Dangerfield's.  The  obstinacy  of  a  mule  is  gentle,  yield- 
ing, compared  to  it.  And,  by  Jove,  Frankland,  in  this  case  he 
will  have  grounds  to  go  upon.  Lady  Dangerfield,  against  his 
express  command,  goes  to  a  masquerade  at  the  house  of  a 
woman  of  doubtful  reputation,  in  male  attire,  and  in  the  com- 
])any  of  a  man  who  has  been  her  lover,  and  of  whom  he  is 
monstrously  jealous.  He  warns  her  of  the  consequences,  and 
in  her  mad  recklessness  she  defies  them  all.  Egad  !  if  he  does 
turn  her  out  to-morrow  morning,  I  (o:  one  won't  blame  him. 
You  and  Ginevra  will  act  in  every  way,  of  course,  as  your  su- 
perior wisdom  may  suggest.  I  have  no  more  to  say,  only  this 
— if  you  and  she  really  persist  in  going,  I  and  my  daughter 
shall  pack  our  belongings  and  depart  by  the  earliest  train  to- 
morrow.    I  have  spoken." 

He  turned  to  go.  Still  lost  in  dismal  perplexity,  still  angrily 
pulling  his  ginger  mustaches,  still  gloomy  of  tone,  the  badgered 
major  spoke. 

"  I  say — my  lord — hold  on,  will  you  ?    What  the  deuce  is  a 


424 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


fellow  to  do  ?     I  can't  go  off  to  London  again,  if  that  is  what 
-oh,  hang  it  no  !  without  a  word  of  explanation  or 


know — t 


you  mean- 
excuse,  or 
impossible." 

"Write  a  note — invent  any  excuse  you  please.  Youf  near- 
est relative,  from  whom  you  have  expectations,  is  in  articido 
mortis^  and  demands  your  presence  to  sooth  his  last  hours. 
Anything  will  do — say  what  you  please.  She'll  be  in  a  furious 
passion  at  the  disai)pointment,  but  you  save  her,  and  virtue  is 
its  own  reward,  and  all  that.  I  promise  to  bring  her  to  see 
matters  in  their  true  light  in  a  week." 

"  My  lord,"  the  major  cried  resolutely,  *'  I  must  see  her. 
I'll  tell  her  myself — I'm  blessed  if  1  know  what.  But  I  won't 
go  to  the  masquerade — I  promise  you  tJiatV 

He  stalked  gloomily  away  as  he  sjjoke,  leaped  into  a  fly,  and 
was  whirled  off  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  The  earl  looked  after  him 
with  a  slight  smile,  in  which  his  habitual  sneer  lurked. 

"Poor  children— how  vexed  they  are  at  losing  their  toy. 
He'll  keep  his  word,  however — he's  not  half  a  bad  fellow, 
Frankland — a  tailor's  block,  with  an  inch  and  a  quarter  of  brain. 
Nothing  is  farther  from  my  intentions  than  to  permit  a  rupt- 
ure between  Ginevra  and  her  imbecile  husband,  if  I  can  pre- 
vent it.  At  least  until  Cecil's  prospects  are  defined  more 
clearly  ;  and  that  day  of  reckoning  nuist  come  very  soon.  As 
I  said.  Sir  Arthur  has  run  the  length  of  his  tether — it  is  high 
time  to  pull  him  short  up." 

He  turned  to  look  for  Captain  O'Donnell,  but  Captain 
O'Donnell  had  long  since  disappeared.  He  had  lingered  an 
mstant  to  speak  a  hurried  word  to  a  disreputable-looking  fellow 
who  had  emerged  from  a  third-class  carriage — a  cockney 
evidently  of  the  lowest  type — a  singular-looking  acquaintance 
for  Redmond  O'Donnell,  the  earl  would  have  thought  had  he 
seen  h.  n.  But  he  had  not  seen,  and  after  listening  to  a  brief 
direction  given  by  the  Algerian  officer  the  fellow  had  touched 
his  battered  hat  and  slouched  on  his  way. 

And  in  a  very  perturbed  state  of  mind  indeed  Major  Frank- 
land  made  his  way  to  Scarswood  Park.  What  he  was  to  say  to 
my  lady,  what  excuse  to  offer,  how  to  get  out  of  his  promise,  he 
had  not  the  remotest  idea.  What  she  would  say  to  him  he 
knew  only  too  well.  As  the  railway  lly  flew  along  he  could 
see  in  prosjjective  the  sharp  black  eyes  flashing — hear  the 
shrill  voice  reproaching — the  storm  of  rage  and  disappointment 
with  which  she  would  sweep  from  h'3  presence  and  order  him 


:i 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


that  is  what 

Iplanation  or 

-the  thing  ig 

Your  n ear- 
in  articulo 
last  hours, 
in  a  furious 
xnd  virtue  is 
her  to  see 

list  see  her. 
But  I  won't 

to  a  fly,  and 
ed  after  Jiini 
ed. 

I  their  toy. 
bad  fellow, 
tor  of  brain. 
:rniit  a  rupt- 
f  I  can  pre- 
:fined  more 
J  soon.  As 
r — it  is  high 

ut  Captain 
lingered  an 
)king  fellow 
-a  cockney 
:quaintance 
ight  had  he 
g  to  a  brief 
ad  touched 

ijor  Frank- 
as  to  say  to 
)roinise,  he 
to  him  he 
he  could 
-hear  the 
pointment 
order  him 


425 


never  to  approach  her  again.  And  their  platonic  friendship 
had  been  so  agreeable  and  Scarswood  had  been  such  a  pleasant 
country  refuge  after  the  London  season.  Confound  the  little 
jealous  baronet,  and  trebly  confound  him.  What  asses  some 
husbands  made  of  themselves  for  nothing  at  all. 

What  should  he  say  ?  He  reached  the  park  with  that  mo- 
mentous question  still  unanswered  and  unanswerable.  What 
should  he  say  ?  He  bade  the  fly  wait — he  wanted  to  be  driven 
back  presently  to  catch  the  next  up-train.  What  should  he  say  ? 
With  his  "  inch-and-a-quarter  of  brain  "  in  a  whirl  from  the  un- 
wonted exertion  of  thinking,  he  walked  up  the  avenue,  and  under 
Ihe  King's  Oak  came  face  to  face  with  Miss  Herncastle. 

She  was  reading — she  was  alone.  Major  Frankland  took 
off  Ills  crush  hat,  all  his  flurry  and  gulit  written  legibly  on  his 
Ubually  i)lacid  face. 

"Aw — Miss  tjerncastle — how  do?  Is — aw — is  my  lady  at 
home  ? " 

"  My  lady  is  not  at  home,  Major  Frankland  ;  and  if  she  had 
been." — Miss  Herncastle's  large,  grave  eyes  looked  at  him 
meaningly — '■''you  are  the  last  person  she  would  have  expected 
to  see  at  Scarswood  this  afternoon." 

"Then  you  know — " 

"  I  kiiow  all  about  the  note,  warning  you  not  to  appear  here 
until  after  the  masquerade.  My  lady  is  absent  to-day,  with 
Lady  Cecil  and  Miss  O'Donnell,  at  an  archery  party  at  More- 
cambe,  and  Sir  Peter  is  in  close  attendance.  Do  you  think  it 
wise  to  run  counter  to  my  lady's  commands  in  this  fashion  ?  " 

"  Miss  Herncastle,  1 — I'm  not  going.  I've  promised  the  earl. 
He's  told  me  all  about  the  little  baronet's  flare  up,  and  thiv;ats, 
and  all  that  nonsense,  if  Lady  Dangerfield  accompanies  mc  to 
the  masquerade.  The  party  Y>'ill  be  a  very  pleasant  party,  no 
doubt,  as  parties  go  ;  but  it  isn't  worth  all  that,  and  I'm  not  the 
sort  of  man  to  make  family  trouble.  The  earl  wanted  me  to 
write  an  excuse,  but  I  ain't  clever  at  that  sort  of  thing.  Gin — 
Lady  Dangerfield — will  be  deuced  angry,  no  doubt,  and  you'll 
deliver  it,  and  take  my  part  as  well  as  you  can,  Miss  Hern- 
castle— hey  ?  " 

With  vast  hesitation,  many  pauses,  numberless  "aw's"  and 
"er's,"  much  pulling  of  the  auburn  mustache,  the  major  got 
out  this  speech.  The  lurking  smile  of  amusement  to  Miss 
Herncastle's  eyes  he  did  not  see. 

"  Major  Frankland' s  sentiments  do  him  honor.  Sir  Peter  is 
certainly  rampant  on  this  point,  and  unpleasantly  in  earnest. 


426 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


m 


A 


;[.     ,'        \ 

1 

.    i    1 

Here  is  my  book,  Major  Frankland  ;  it  will  serve  as  a  desk  to 
write  your  note." 

"  And — aw — you  think  my  lady  will  make  no  end  of  a  row, 
don't  you,  Miss  Hcrncastle  i*"  the  major  asked,  wistfully. 

"  I  think  she  will  be  annoyed,  beyond  doubt.  You  see  the 
dress  is  very  pretty ;  she  has  quite  set  her  heart  upon  going, 
and  opposition  has  only  made  her  more  determined  Here  is 
a  pencil,  if  you  have  none  ;  and  the  blank  page  will  do  for  your 
note." 

With  an  inward  groan  of  apprehension,  the  major  scrawled 
two  or  three  lines  of  incoherent  excuse — he  hardly  knew  what. 
He  did  not  dare  read  it ;  he  folded  it  up  in  the  correct  cockade 
fashion,  and  handed  it  to  the  governess.  The  man  who  hesitates 
is  lost ;  he  turned  to  go  the  instant  he  finished. 

"You'll  give  Lady  Dangerfield  this,  Miss  Herncastle,  and  be 
good  enough  to  explain  that  it  is  solely  for  her  *ake,  and  against 
my  will  that  I  don't  go.  Aw — thanks  very  much,  and  good 
day." 

He  bowed  in  his  agitation  with  something  less  than  his  ordi- 
nary exquisite  grace — walked  back  to  the  fly — jumped  into  his 
seat,  and  was  driven  off.  Miss  Herncastle,  standing  perfectly 
still,  under  the  King's  Oak,  watched  him  out  of  sight,  then  she 
slowly  and  deliberately  tore  the  note  into  minutest  morsels  and 
scattered  them  in  a  litUe  white  shower  over  the  grass. 

"My  lady  shall  not  be  disappointed  of  the  ball  upon  which 
her  heart  is  set,  even  for  your  scruples,  major.  No  jedous 
husband  shall  prevent  my  masterpiece  of  millinery — the  ])age's 
costume — from  adorning  Mrs.  Everleigh's  ball.  And  whether 
you  are  in  London  or  Castleford,  Major  Frankland,  Count  Lara 
shall  dance  with  his  Kaled  to-night." 

My  lady  and  her  party  returned  from  Morecambe  in  time  for 
dinner.  Sir  Arthur  was  in  attendance  upon  Lady  Cecil,  look- 
ing bored  and  distrait.  Squire  Talbot  was  hovering  in  the  wake 
of  Rose  O'Donnell,  whose  small  dark  face  had  grown  wanner 
and  thinner  than  ever  in  the  last  two  days,  and  who  looked 
much  fitter  for  a  sick  bed  than  an  archery  party.  Miss  Hern- 
castle smiled  again  as  she  looked  at  her  and  the  baronet — the 
one  shrinking,  the  other  brightening  under  her  glance.  In  dif- 
ferent ways  the  spell  of  her  power  was  upon  both. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  the  package  in  Major  Frankland's 
room  should  be  sent  to  the  Silver  Rose  after  nightfall  by  one  of 
the  servants.  "  Don't  disturb  yourself  about  it,  my  lady,"  Miss 
Herncastle  had  said  :  "  /'//  attend  to  all  that."     She  did  attend 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


427 


to  it  by  quietly  concealing  the  box  in  her  own  room  a  little  be- 
fore the  archery  party  returned. 

Sir  Peter  canu;  to  dinner  ;  (juictly  but  steadily  he  had  kept 
his  wife  under  surveiUancc  ever  since  his  discovery  of  the  mas 
querade.  He  liad  shut  up  his  study,  his  beetles  and  bugs— he 
had  forgotten  the  ghost — the  pilgrimage  to  the  cemetery — his 
interest  in  Miss  llerncaslle — in  this  new  interest.  He  had  long 
groaned  in  spirit  under  his  wife's  tyranny  and  flirtations.  Now 
or  never  was  the  time  to  bring  them  all  to  an  end.  He  would 
watch  her  as  a  cat  a  mouse,  and  if  in  spite  of  all  she  went  to 
the  masquerade  in  page  attire,  why  go  she  should,  and  then — 

My  lady  understood  it  all,  read  him  like  a  book,  and  her  re- 
bellious feminine  blood  rose  instantly  in  revolt.  Had  death 
been  the  penalty  she  would  almost  have  braved  it  now.  (Jo 
she  would,  but  she  would  be  subtle  as  a  serpent  and  throw  him 
off  the  track. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  she  was  seized  with  a  head- 
ache, a  horrible  headache,  a  vertigo — no  doubt  caused  by  too 
long  standing  in  the  hot  sun  ;  she  must  go  home  at  once.  She 
came  home  with  the  whole  archery  party  in  her  wake.  She 
was  too  ill  to  dress  for  dinner,  but  she  made  a  heroic  effort  and 
went  down.  At  table  she  could  not  eat  a  mouthful — after  din- 
ner in  the  drawing-room  she  was  absolutely  unable  to  hold  her 
suffering  head  up.  She  nmst  retire — a  darkened  room — per- 
fect quiet — a  long  night's  Sioep — unlimited  eau  de  cologne  and 
sal  volatile,  these  things  alone  could  restore  her.  If  they  did 
not,  then  the  family  medical  attendant  must  be  summoned  in 
hot  haste  from  Castleford  o-morrow.  Her  husband  looked  at 
her  as  she  arose  amid  a  low  murmur  of  sympathy,  her  hand  to 
her  forehead — not  a  trace  of  rouge  on  the  sallow  pallor  of  her 
face — with  the  grin  of  a  small  demon. 

"  T.et  us  hope  your  headache  will  not  prove  so  serious  as 
all  that,  my  lady,"  he  remarked.  "Your  vertigo  (how  odd  you 
never  had  a  vertigo  before)  I  am  quite  sure  will  be  entirely 
gone  to-morrow." 

"He  means  mischief,"  Miss  Herncastle  thought,  watching 
him  from  her  cover.  "  He  sees  through  her  transparent  rus  , 
and  will  follow  her  to  the  ball.  The  Fates  are  working  for  me 
as  well  as  I  could  work  myself." 

She  glided  unobserved  from  the  room  after  my  lady,  and 
joined  her  in  the  violet  boudoir.  A  substantial  repast  was 
spread  here.  Lady  Dangerfield's  appetite  was  unexception- 
able, and  she  had  had  no  dinner.     In  an  instant  every  trace  of 


428 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


u  3 


^Hs 

flU 

■  > 

■H 

»'' 

•     i 

'wa'- 

i' 

■Ml 

'•■              1 

;  -^ 

1        f 

^  '■  . 

«           ■( 

i  H 

1    ii 

M  ^  • 

'  : 

> 

headache  and  vertigo  disappeared.  The  door  was  locked,  the 
heavy  curtain  of  violet  cloth  dropi)ed  over  it,  Lady  Danger- 
ficUl  sat  down  to  refresh  her  inner  ladyship,  and  Miss  Hern- 
castle  produced  the  cxtpiit^ite  page  dress.  'I'he  idea  of  iloubt- 
ing  Major  iMankland's  appearing  was  too  preposterous  an  idea 
ever  to  occur  to  her. 

"And  you  think — you  arc  sure,  Miss  Herncastle — Sir  Peter 
has  not  the  faintest  suspicion?"  my  lady  asked,  as  she  rose 
from  the  table,  and  placed  herself  in  the  skillful  hands  of  her 
governess,  to  be  dressed.  Delphine  had  been  dismissed  as  not 
sufficiently  trustworthy.  "You  are  perfectly  sure  he  sus[)ects 
nothing?  ' 

"  I  am  perfectly  sure  of  nothing  in  this  lower  world,  except 
that  I  am  in  it,"  Miss  Herncastle  answered  coolly  ;  "but  the 
probabilities  are  he  does  not.  Major  Frankland  s  in  London 
— you  are  ill  in  bed  of  headache — how  then  can  either  of  you 
be  at  the  ball?  And  it  doesn't  seem  likely  he  will  accept 
Mrs.  Everleigh's  invitation  himself  and  go."  Lady  Dangerlield 
gave  a  faint  shriek. 

"Good  Heaven,  Miss  Herncastle  !  \' hat  an  idea  ! — Sir  Peter 
go.  Of  course,  he'll  not  go — the  very  idea  is  absurd.  I  don't 
believe  he  ever  attended  a  ball  in  his  life,  and  he  detests  Mrs. 
Everleigh  much  too  cordially  even  to  cross  her  threshold.  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  suggest  such  i)reposterous  things — I  was 
nervous  enough  before,  you  have  made  me  a  hundred  times 
worse.     Has  the  box  gone  yet  ?  " 

"The  box  is  safely  disposed  of,  my  lady.  Have  no  fears — 
Count  Lara  will  be  there." 

1  for  nhnble  fingers  flew  over  her  work.  Lady  Dangerfield's 
short  black  hair  was  artistically  curled  over  her  temples  and 
shoulders,  and  the  little  plumed  cap  set  sideways  thereon. 
The  little  high-heeled  shoes,  with  their  glittering  paste  buckles, 
were  on  ;  doublet,  hose,  cloak,  rapier,  scented  gloves,  all ;  the 
exquisite  tint  of  rouge  given  to  the  cheeks,  the  eyes  darkened, 
all  the  Jiiystic  ceremonies  of  the  toilet  gone  through ;  and  my 
lady,  robed  and  radiant,  looked  in  the  full-length  mirror,  and 
saw  a  charming  vision — all  velvet,  gold  lace,  flashing  buttons, 
carmine,  silk,  and  waving  plumes.  Her  sallow  cheeks  actually 
flushed  under  their  roui^c  vegetal. 

"It  is  exquisite — it  is  lovely  I"  she  murmured.  "  I  have 
act  looked  half  so  well  in  anything  for  years — it  brings  my 
waning  ^  )U'  a  back — 1  fancy  it  will  surprise  even  Jasper.  Now, 
Miss  Hu  ^icastle,  my  cloak,  and  go  down  quietly  and  see  if  the 


I 

I 


as  locked,  the 
acly  Dangcr- 
kI  Miss  Hern- 
dca  of  doiibt- 
tcrous  an  idea 

1^'— Sir  Peter 
,  as  slie  rose 

liands  of  her 
missed  i^s  not 
^  he  suspects 

world,  except 
'y ;  "but  the 

s  in  Lonilon 
either  of  you 

will  accept 
'  Dangerlield 

L  .'—Sir  Peter 
ird.  1  don't 
detests  Mrs. 
hreshold.  I 
ings— I  was 
nidred  times 

e  no  fears — 

^angerfield's 
temples  and 
ys  thereon, 
ste  buckles, 
■es,  all ;  the 
s  darkened, 
:h ;  and  my 
mirror,  and 
ig  buttons, 
;l^s  actually 

"I  have 

brings  my 

per.    Now, 

1  see  if  the 


KNrCIIT  AND   PAGE. 


429 


fly  you  engaged  at  Casfleford  is  in  waiting.     Find  out  if  Sir 
J'eter  is  in  his  study,  too.     Somehow  I  feel  horribly  nervous 


to-niLrhf. 


1   will  ascert 


un, 


Miss  Ilerncastle's  soft  voice  answered. 


as  she  moved  noiselessly  from  the  room. 

Horribly  neivous.  Yes,  my  lady  was  that.  Was  it  some 
dim  presentiment  that  with  her  own  hand  she  was  flinging 
away  to-night  nil  that  made  the  happiness  of  her  shallow  life  i* 
If  Sir  Peter  should  come  to  the  masquerade — if  he  should  fmd 
it  out. 

"You  shall  not  live  mider  my  roof  and  dishonor  it — that  I 
swear !"  were  these  not  the  words  he  had  used?  And  he  luul 
been  so  (piiet — he  had  looked  so  grimly  in  earnest.  What  if 
he  found  it  out  ?  What  if  he  kept  his  word?  She  sliivered  a 
little  under  her  cloak.  Was  it  too  late  yet?  Would  it  not  be 
wisest  to  stop  at  the  eleventh  hour,  forego  the  parly,  take  otT 
the  lovely  page's  dress  and  stop  at —  » 

Miss  llerncastle,  silent  and  swift,  was  back  at  her  side. 

"The  fly  is  in  wailing.  Sir  Peter  is  in  his  study — the  rest 
still  are  in  the  drawing-room — there  is  not  a  soul  to  be  seen. 
Now  is  your  time,  my  lady,  and  make  haste." 

Rut  still  for  a  second  she  stood  irresolute.  In  that  moment 
one  word  from  Miss  Herncastle  would  have  turned  the  scale 
either  way.     That  word  was  sjjoken. 

"  Take  one  last  look,  my  lady — is  it  not  exquisite  ?  Mrs. 
Evcrleigh  will  be  ready  to  expire  with  envy.  You  look  abso- 
lutely da/./,ling,  in  your  Kaled  dress — you  never  in  your  life 
wore  anytliing  half  so  becoming — Major  Frankland  will  tell 
you  the  same.     Now,  then,  rny  lady,  quick." 

The  scale  was  turned — the  last  hesitation  over.  From  that 
moment  until  the  grand  denouement  came,  Lady  Dangerfield 
never  [)aused  to  think. 

They  descended  one  of  the  back  stairways — they  met  no 
one.  Miss  Herncastle  softly  opened  a  turret  door,  and  they 
glided  through.  They  made  their  way  in  the  din:  starlight 
along  the  shrubbery,  skirting  a  belt  of  dark  woodland,  and 
gained  the  highroad.  In  the  shadow  of  a  ch  mp  of  beeches 
the  hired  fly  wailed.  A  moment  and  my  lady  was  in  ;  another 
and  she  was  olT  as  fast  as  a  stout  cob  could  carry  her  "on  the 
lOcid  to  ruin." 

In  Mrs,  Everleigh's  stuccoed  mansion,  in  Mrs.  Everleigh's 
gorgeous  reception  rooms,  half  a  hundred  lamps  shone  dazzlingly 
o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men.    It  was  the  usual  scene — nuns 


1. 


430 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


a:!' V    \ 


i! 


and  demons.  "  Friars  of  orders  gray"  in  juxtaposition  with 
brigands,  hooded  Capuchins  flirting  with  ballet  dancers,  Levan- 
tine pirates  waltzing  with  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  negroes  and  flower- 
girls,  Indian  chiefs  and  Spanish  donnas — all  the  grand  persoii- 
ages  of  history  and  opera,  a  motley  and  bewildering  spectacle 
—all  masked.  And  over  all  clashed  out  the  music.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  perfume,  the  eye  grew  blind  with  light,  and 
dazzle,  and  color. 

Ansong  all  the  brilliant-robed  throng  there  was  not  one  who 
excit":i  more  attention  than  the  little  glittering  page,  Kaled. 
But  where  was  Lara?  An  hour  had  ]mssed  since  .'le  page's 
arrival,  but  the  page's  master  was  absent  still.  And  under  the 
silken  mask  an  angry  flush  was  rising  at  length  over  the  page's 
face. 

What  cojild  keep  Major  Frankland  ?  She  flung  herself  into 
a  seat  as  she  asked  the  question — alone  for  a  brief  moment — 
the  lirst  since  tJie  ball  began.  "  Did  he  not  come  down  after 
all?  How  dare  he  disappoint  me  so?  And  how  absurd  I 
must  look — the  page  without  the  knight.     I'll  never — " 

She  stopped- -some  one  had  approached  behind  her  unseen 
— a  voice  spoke  low  in  her  ear. 

•'  The  Chief  of  I^ara  has  returned  again.  Look  up — my 
faithful  Kaled — my  prince  and  paragon  of  pages — and  welcome 
your  knight  and  master  ! " 

"  The  Chief  of  Lara,"  in  the  picturesque  dress  of  a  Spanish 
cavalier,  stood  behind  her,  his  mask  over  his  face.  But  for  one 
instant  she  had  not  recognized  Jasper  Frankland's  well-known 
tones.  "  No — don't  reproach  me,  Ginevra,  as  I  see  you  are 
going  to  do,  and  as  I  know  I  deserve.  I  couldn't  help  it — 
only  just  got  down — serious  illness  of  my  grandfather — ought 
to  be  by  his  bedside  at  this  instant.  Ah — a  redowa — my 
favorite  dance.  Come,  Kaled,  let  me  look  at  you.  A  gem  of 
a  dress  indeed — it  is  exquisite.     Come." 

He  whirled  her  away,  but  for  the  first  time  in  her  experience 
the  major's  step  and  hers  did  not  agree.  For  the  first  moment 
or  two  they  absolutely  could  not  dance  together — then  Count 
Lara  seemed  to  catch  it,  and  they  whirled  away  to  the  admira- 
tion of  all  beholders. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-night,  Jasper?"  Lady 
Dangerfield  asked,  iialf  pettishly.  "  Your  voice  sounds  strange, 
you  don't  dance  as  you  used — and — and  something  about  you, 
i  don't  know  what,  looks  unfamiliar.  Take  off  your  mask,  sir, 
and  let  me  see  you." 


KNIGHT  AND  PAGE. 


431 


"  Not  likely,  A  page  must  never  presume  to  command  his 
master.  Rest  assured  that  I  am  I,  and  at  supper  we  will  im- 
mask,  and  become  the  cyno£;ure  of  all  eyes.  Gincvra,  your  dross 
is  absolutely  perfect — there  is  nothing  to  equal  it  here  to-night." 

A  passing  domino  caught  the  ludf-whispercd  words,  and 
'paused  to  watch  them.  From  that  moment,  wherever  the 
knight  and  page  went  the  black  domino  was  sure  to  follow. 

It  was  an  indescribably  brilliant  party,  there  was  hardly  a 
moment's  cessation  in  the  whirl  of  dancing — the  hours  flew  by 
like  minutes — and  Lara  and  his  page  never  parted  company 
for  an  instant,  wliether  they  waltzed  or  walked,  whether  they 
sought  the  cool  stillness  of  half-lit  balconies  and  boudoirs,  or 
plunged  into  the  ivhirl  of  maskers.  And  still  all  unnoticed — 
stealthily  anrl  sure  as  Fate  itself,  the  black  domino  followed, 
and  watched,  and  bided  his  time. 

They  wandered  into  a  conservatory  at  last,  filled  with  the 
moonlight  of  shaded  lamps,  where  the  music  came  faint  and 
far-off,  and  tall  tropic  plants  reared  their  rich  heads  far  above. 

"  How  hot  it  is — how  noisy  they  are,"  Kaled  murmured, 
sinking  into  a  moss-green  seat.  "I  must  take  off  my  mask — [ 
shall  look  as  red  as  a  milk-maid  when  we  unmask.  In  the  ten 
minutes  that  intervene  between  this  and  supper,  let  me  try  and 
get  cool  if  I  can." 

He  stooped  over  her  with  the  whispered  imbecility  he  knew 
was  expected  of  him,  and  fanned  her  with  a  palm  leaf. 

"  Shall  I  fetch  you  a  water-ice  ? "  he  asked ;  "  it  will  lielp 
you  to  feel  cool.  You  will  have  it  eaten  before  we  go  to 
supper." 

She  assented  languidly.  Her  mask  lay  in  her  lap,  and 
watching  her  with  glittering  eyes,  the  spectral  domino  stood  in 
shadow  of  the  paluis.  Count  Lara's  garments  brushed  him  as 
he  went  by — but  Lara's  eyes  had  noticed  him  from  the  first.  In 
a  second  Count  Lara  had  vanished.  My  lady,  looking  flushed 
and  handsome  in  her  boyish  travesty,  fanned  herself  in  the 
cool  shade  of  a  myrtle-tree.  And  behind  the  palms  the  domino 
waited. 

Ijoth  waited  for  what  never  came — the  return  of  Count 
Lara. 

Tlie  moments  ])assed  on — the  summons  to  supper  was  given 
— the  masciueraders  were  crowding  to  the  supper-room,  and 
still  Count  Lara  did  not  appear.  \\\  a  storm  of  wrath  and  iu)- 
patience,  my  lady  lingered — twice  tonight  "he  had  made  her 
wait — what  did  he  mean?" 


432 


A  DARK-  NIGHT'S   WORK. 


I 


She  rose  at  length  when  patience  had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue, 
and  taking  the  proffered  arm  of  an  ogre,  made  licr  way  to  the 
supper-tables.  The  laughter  and  excitement  were  at  their 
wildest — everybody  was  unmasked — everybody  was  making  the 
most  asto'  -i  "g  discoveries — everybody  was  present — every- 
body but  the  exasperating  Count  of  Lara. 

No,  far  or  near  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  A  dozen  voices 
called  his  name ;  no  one  could  tell  what  had  become  of  him. 
Infuriated,  mystified,  my  lady  looked  up  and  down.  What  was 
it  she  saw  that  made  her  leap  from  her  seat  with  a  low  cry  of 
fear,  that  drove  the  blood  from  her  blanched  cheeks?  She 
saw — for  one  instant,  amid  the  crowd,  the  face — ?iot  of  Major 
Frankland,  but  of  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield,  looking  at  her.  For 
one  instant  only,  then  it  too  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


A    DARK    night's   WORK. 


HEN  my  Lord  Ruysland  had  finished  his  little  pater- 
nal lecture  to  Major  Frankland  and  saw  that  gallant 
officer  ride  off,  he  turned  to  address  Captain  O'Don- 
nell,  and  found  to  his  surprise  that  Captain  O'Donnell 
was  gone.  The  chasseur,  indeed,  had  not  lingered  a  moment. 
With  his  straw  hat  pulled  low  over  his  eyes,  he  strode  away  at 
once  through  the  town  and  to  his  quarters  in  the  Silver  Rose. 
The  slouching,  cockney-looking  individual  to  whom  he  had 
spoken  at  the  station  was  at  the  Silver  Rose  before  him,  and  as 
the  captain  passed  through  the  inn  yard,  sat  on  a  bench  in 
fiicndly  converse  with  Lanty  Lafferty. 

"  Dull?"  Mr.  Lafferty  was  repeating  as  his  master  passed 
through  ;  "  troth  ye  rnay  say  it's  dull  wid  sorra  sowl  to  spake 
to  maybe  from  mornin  till  night.  I>ut  thin,  on  the  other  hand, 
there's  the  hoith  o'  aitin  and  dhrinkin  goin^  on  late  an'  airly, 
and  niver  a  ban's  turn  to  do  half  yer  time,  not  to  si)ake  ov  the 
barmaid  an'  the  cook,  two  as  pjrty-an  as  pleasant-spoken  cra- 
tiurs  as  ye'd  wish  to  kiss.  It's  a  comfortable  life  entirely  it 
would  be  av  the  town  was  only  Ballynahaggart  instead  of  Cas- 


i 


A  DARK  NIGHT'S   WORK-. 


433 


tleford.  But  arrah  !  shure  we  can't  have  iverything.  By  the 
hokey,  here's  the  masther  himself,  long  life  to  him." 

"All  right,  Lanty,"  his  master  responded,  passing  through 
with  a  nod,  and  taking  no  notice  of  Lanty's  companion.  "  How 
are  they  all  at  the  Park  ?     Seen  Miss  Rose  lately  ?  " 

"I  was  at  the  Park  above  this  morning,  Misther  Redmond, 
and  J  saw  her  ladyship,  the  lord's  daughter,  an'  she, was  axin 
for  yer  honor,  and  bid  me  tell  you  the  young  misthress  was 
over  an'  above  well." 

O'Donnell  merely  nodded  again  and  hurried  on.  It  was  a 
very  long  time  since  his  sister  had  been  "  over  and  above 
well,"  and  he  could  see  plainly  enough  it  was  more  a  mind 
than  a  body  diseased ;  and  that  this  Gaston  Dantree — the 
scoundrel  who  had  wrecked  another  noble  life — was  in  some 
way  the  cause,  he  knew  now,  thanks  to  Miss  Herncastle. 
But  that  he  was  or  had'^en  Rose's  actual  husband,  had  never 
for  an  instant  occurred  to  him. 

I.,anty  Lalferty  resumed  his  occupation  of  brushing  a  pair  of 
his  master's  tops,  and  his  conversation  with  the  stranger  from 
London,  interlarding  work  and  social  converse  Avith  a  little 
nmsic.  His  rollicking  Irish  voice  came  through  the  open 
windows  to  his  master's  ears  : 


"  'It  was  on  a  windy  night,  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
An  Irish  lad  so  tight,  all—' 

Bad  scran  to  ye  fur  tops,  shure  the  art  o'man  wouldn't  git  ye 
the  color  he  loikes  ! 

•"An  Irish  lad  so  tight— ' 

Oh,  thin,  divil  fear  him  but  he  was  tight — shure  it's  awakcness 
all  his  counthrymen  have.  It's  meself  wud  like  a  dhrop  av 
potheen  this  minute,  fresh  from  the  still — me  very  heart's  broke 
a  drinkin'  the  beer  they  have  in  these  parts,  an'  me  gettin  that 
fat  in  it,  that  sorra  a  waistcoat  I  have  in  the  worruld  that'll 
button  on  me  good  or  bad.  Oh,  blissed  hour  !  will  I  iver  sec 
the  day  whin  all  his  sodgerin'  an'  his  diviltry  in  Algiers,  and 
Ameriky,  and  England  will  be  over,  an'  meself  back  in  O'Don- 
nell Castle  on  the  ould  sod  once  more  ?  Talk  about  grandeur 
—about  yer  Windsor  Castles,  an'  yer  St.  James'  Palace— be 
mo  word,  the  two  av  thim  thegither  couldn't  hould  a  candle 
to  Castle  O'Donnell.  Sixty-three  rooms — sorra  less— a  stable 
full  of  cattle— the  best  blood  in  the  country,  a  pack  o'  hounds, 
a  butler  in  silk  stockings,  an'  futmin  as  high  as  Fin  McCoul, 
19 


434 


A  DARK  NIGHT'S   WORK. 


> 


the  Irish  giant,  if  iver  ye  heerd  av  him.  Whiskey  galore, 
champagne  for  the  axin',  an'  vvaitin'  maids  that  it  ud  make  yer 
mouth  water  only  to  look  at.  It's  little  I  thought,  six  years 
ago,  whin  I  left  sich  a  place  as  that,  that  it's  an  English  inn  I'd 
couk;  to.     It's  thim  wor  the  blessed  times  all  out." 

"  Blessed  times,  upon  my  life,"  responded  his  listener,  smok- 
ing philosophically.  "  I  say,  Mr.  Lafterty,  there's  yer  master 
a  calling  of  ver." 

Lanty  seized  the  boots  and  made  a  rush  for  his  master's 
room.  The  softj  silvery  gray  of  the  summer  evening  was  fall- 
'  ng  b>  this  time,  and  with  his  back  to  the  faint  light,  the  chas- 
seur sat  when  his  man  entered. 

"  Come  in,  Lanty,  and  shut  the  door — perhaps  you  had 
better  turn  the  key.  I  see  you  have  made  the  acquaintance  of 
that  fellow  in  the  inn  yard  already," 

"  Jist  passin'  the  time  o'  day,  yer  honor.  They're  civil 
crathurs  thim  English  chaps  mostly,  an'  shure  I'm  not  proud." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  and  it  is  just  as  well  your  pride  has  not 
stood  in  the  way  of  your  sociability  on  the  present  occasion,  as 
you  would  have  to  make  his  acquaintance  whether  or  no. 
Lanty,  can  you  keep  a  secret  ?  " 

"A  saycret  is  it?  Upon  me  conscience  thin  that  same's  a 
question  I  didn't  expect  from  yer  father's  son.  A  saycret ! 
Arrah,  Misther  Redmond,  is  there  a  bad  turn  ye  iver  did  since 
ye  were  breeched  that  I  don't  know?  Is  there  a  bit  av  divil- 
ment  ye  iver  wor  in  (an'  faith  yer  divilnient  was  past  countin') 
that  I  didn't  know  betther  than  me  prayers,  and  did  I  iver  tell 
— did  I  now  ?  Faith  it's  late  in  the  day,  so  it  is,  to  ax  me  sich 
a  question  as  that." 

"Well,  Lanty,  don't  be  indignant — of  course,  I  know  you 
can.  Then  I  want  you  to  keep  quiet  this  evening,  and  per- 
fectly sober,  remember ;  to  retire  to  your  room  earl)',  but  not 
to  go  to  bed.  About  half-past  eleven,  when  the  town  is  quiet 
and  every  soul  in  the  inn  gone  to  sleep,  take  your  shoes  in 
your  hand,  steal  out  as  though  you  were  a  mouse,  and  wait  for 
me  under  the  clump  of  larches  beyond  the  inn.  You'll  fmd 
your  London  acquaintance  there  before  you — I  brought  him 
down,  and  I  want  you  both  to-night.  Lanty,  did  you  ever  hear 
of  a  resurrectionist — a  sack-'em-up  ?  " 

"  Sorra  hear.     Is  it  anything  to  ait  or  dhrink  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  eat  or  drink.  A  resurrectionist  is  one  who 
opens  graves,  steals  dead  bodies  and  sells  them  to  medical 
students  for  dissection." 


4 


•  5? 


A  DARK  NIGHT'S-  WORK. 


435 


Whiskey  galore, 
:  it  ud  make  yer 
longht,  six  years 
1  English  inn  I'd 

)Ut." 

s  listener,  smok- 
ere's  yer  master 

for  his  master's 
evening  was  fall- 
t  light,  the  chas- 

^rhaps  you  had 
:  acquaintance  of 

They're  civil 
I'm  not  proud." 
)ur  pride  has  not 
sent  occasion,  as 
whether   or   no. 

lin  that  same's  a 
on.  A  saycret ! 
ye  iver  did  since 
e  a  bit  av  divil- 
is  past  countin') 
d  did  1  iver  tell 
is,  to  ax  me  sich 

se,  I  know  you 
/ening,  and  per- 
m  early,  but  not 
he  town  is  quiet 
:e  your  shoes  in 
ise,  and  wait  for 
nn.  You'll  find 
— I  brought  him 
lid  you  ever  hear 

iiist  is  one  who 
hem  to    medical 


*'  The  Lord  betune  us  and  harm  !" 

"  And  this  fellow  you  have  been  talking  to  all  the  evening  is 
a  professional  sack-'em-up."  The  chasseur's  gravity  nearly 
gave  way  at  Lanty's  look  of  horror.  "  Never  mind,  my  good 
fellow,  he  won't  sell  you  for  dissection  ;  and,  as  I  said  before, 
you  must  be  civil  to  him  despite  his  profession,  for  1  have 
brought  him  down  on  purpose  to  open  a  grave  this  very  night, 
and  you  are  to  come  along  and  heli>." 

"  Open  a  grave  !     Oh,  king  o'  glory  i " 

"  It's  all  on  the  square,  Lanty — no  stealing  dead  bodies,  no 
selling  to  doctors — I  haven't  quite  got  to  thatyoX.  -But  I  have 
reason  to  believe  a  very  great  fraud  has  been  perpetrated,  and 
that  very  great  mischief  may  come  of  it.  To  prevent  that  mis- 
chief I  open  this  grave,  open  the  coffin,  see  what  it  contains, 
and  replace  it  exactly  as  I  find  it  before  morning.  You  under- 
stand ?  " 

Understand.  Mr.  Lafferty  was  staring  at  his  master  with 
an  expression  of  blank  horror  and  consternation.  Open  a 
grave  in  the  dead  of  night  to  see  what  a  coffin  contained.  All 
the  "divilment"  of  the  past  paled  into  insignificance  beside 
this  crowning  act.     Was  his  master  suddenly  going  mad  ? 

"  I  can't  explain  any  further,  and  it  is  not  necessary  for  you 
10  know.  Be  on  hand,  as  I  said :  keep  sober,  make  no  noise, 
and  let  me  find  you  with  Joggins  under  Hie  larches  at  half-past 
eleven.  They  keep  early  hours  here — all  will  be  still  by  that 
time.     Now  go,  and  mind,  not  a  word  of  this  to  a  soul." 

Lanty  Lafferty  v/ent — his  mouth  had  fallen  open,  and  he 
forgot  to  shut  it,  his  eyes  were  like  full  moons,  that  blank  ex- 
pression of  consternation  still  rigid  on  his  face. 

"  0[)en  a  grave  !  Oh,  wirra  !  Afther  twelve  o'clock  !  The 
Lord  look  down  on  me  this  night !  To  see  what's  in  a  coffin  I 
Arrah  !  is  it  taken  lave  av  his  sinsis  intirely  he  is  !  Faith  it's 
little  rhyme  or  raison  there  iver  was  wid  him  or  wan  av  his 
name,  but  av  this  disi'nt  bang  Bannagher  I  Bannagher  I  upon 
me  sowl  it  bangs  the  divil," 

But  to  rebel,  to  disobey,  Mr.  Laff<  ^^\  did  not  dream.  Had 
his  master  informed  him  it  was  Mspamful  vl;\ty  to  murder  some 
one,  and  he  (Lanty)  was  to  assist  at  the  sacrifice,  that  faithful 
henchman  might  have  groaned  under  the  awful  duty  assigned 
him,  but  he  would  have  obeyed.  And  he  would  obey  now, 
altliough  a  legion  of  ghosts  should  rise  in  their  winding-sheets 
to  warn  them  from  their  dreadful  deed. 

The  evening  gray  deepened  into  dark.     Ten  came — the  stars 


A  ■' :.! 


i\ 


436 


A  DARK  NIGHT'S   WORK:. 


I 


were  out,  but  there  was  no  moon.  Captain  O'Donnell  sat  at 
his  o])en  window  and  smoked.  To  him  this  hist  act  was  but 
an  act  of  simple  duty  to  save  his  friend — the  one  last  proof 
needed  in  the  strange  discovery  he  had  made.  No  harm 
should  be  done — the  coffin  would  be  opened,  and  replaced 
l)rccisely  as  he  had  found  it,  the  grave  re- closed.  And  then 
JMiss  Ilerncastle  should  hear  all — should  confess  tn  the  man 
she  hac'  made  love  her  the  whole  truth,  or  he  would. 

At  half-past  ten  the  inn  was  already  dark  and  ciosed  up  for 
the  night ;  there  were  but  few  guests,  and  these  few  kept  primi- 
tive ho.irs.  At  eleven  not  a  light  was  to  be  seen.  Still 
O'Donnell  sat  at  his  window,  looking  out  at  the  dim  starlight, 
smoking  and  waiting.  Half- past  eleven,  and  punctual  to  the 
moment,  he  saw  Lanty  stride  across  the  inn  yard  and  disappear 
in  the  shadow  of  the  larches.  The  time  had  come.  He  had 
removed  his  own  boots,  and  with  them  in  his  hand,  made  his 
way  out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  and  through  the  door 
I.anty  had  noiselessly  unbolted.  Not  a  creature  was  to  be 
seen — the  whole  town  seemed  to  be  still  and  dark.  He  seated 
himself  on  a  bench  and  drew  on  his  boots,  then  he  made  his 
way  at  once  to  the  place  of  tryst. 

I.anty  was  at  his  post — upright  as  a  ramrod,  silent  as  a 
tomb,  and  giving  his  companion  a  wide  berth — Mr.  Joggins, 
with  a  sack  over  his  shoulders  containing  spade  and  pick, 
and  instruments  for  opening  the  coffin — spoke  as  he  drew 
near. 

"  Here  we  are,  noble  captain — up  to  time,  and  not  a  minute 
to  be  lost.  Lead  the  way,  and  we  follers  and  gets  to  business 
at  once." 

Keeping  all  in  the  shade  of  hedges  and  wayside  ^rees,  with 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  in  spite  of  his  consciousnebs  of  duty, 
that  this  night's  work  wai,  an  underhand  and  dastardly  thing, 
the  chasseur  led  the  way.  One  belated  pedestrian — one 
doctor's  gig  they  met,  no  more,  and  the  trees  screened  them 
even  from  them.  They  walked  so  ra]ndly  that  they  were  in 
the  churchyard  before  the  Castleford  steeples  tolled  twelve.  As 
the  tirst  sonorous  boom  of  the  midnight  hour  tolled  out,  Lanty 
LatTerty  crossed  himself  devoutly,  and  looked  fearfully  at  the 
white  tombstone;;  gleaming  in  the  ghostly  light. 

Redmond  O'Donnell  strode  steadfastly  along  between  the 
rows  of  graves,  ^he  lonely  joaths,  until  under  its  solitary  tree  he 
paused  at  Kathe/ine  Dangerfield's.  His  lips  were  set,  his 
eyes  stern — for  good  or  ill  he  wor.ld  know  the  truth  soon. 


*^THE  LENGTH  OF  HIS   TETHER.'^ 


437 


((' 


This  is  the  grave,"  he  said,  curtly.  "Go  to  work;  I'll 
keep  watch." 

The  resurrectionist  opened  his  bag,  produced  his  shovels, 
gave  one  into  the  reluctant  hands  of  Lanty,  and  set  to  work 
with  professional  rapidity  and  dexterity.  The  two  men  worked 
with  a  will  until  the  perspiration  stood  in  great  drops  on  their 
faces.  O'Donnell  had  brought  a  brandy  flask,  and  gave  tlieni 
copious  libations,  until  even  Lanty's  drooping  spirits  arose. 
No  sound  but  the  subdued  noise  of  the  shovelling  clay — noth- 
ing living  or  dead  to  be  seen.  O'Donnell  worked  witli  them — 
tliere  was  no  need  of  watching — and  at  last,  far  below  in  the 
faint  light  of  the  stars,  the  coffin  lay  revealed. 

The  men  lay  on  their  spades,  wiped  their  faces,  and  drew  a 
long  breath.  Then  the  resurrectionist  and  Lanty  raised  the 
cof^n  between  them — the  damp  clay  clinging  to  it,  making  it 
weighty — and  placed  it  at  Redmond  O'Donnell's  feet. 

At  last !  He  drew  one  long,  hard,  tense  breath — his  eyes 
gleamed.  "  Open  it,"  he  said,  in  a  composed  sort  of  voice,  and 
Mr.  Joggins  produced  his  screw-driver,  and  set  to  work  once 
more.  The  screws,  one  by  one,  were  removed — the  last  lay 
in  the  palm  of  Joggins'  hand — nothing  remained  but  to  lift  the 
lid  and  see  either  the  mouldering  remains  of  Katherine  Danger- 
field,  or — 

He  made  a  sign,  Joggins  raised  it,  all  three  bent  forward  to 
look.  There  was  a  simultaneous  exclamation  from  all  as  they 
bent  again  to  reassure  themselves.  The  late  risin^jj  moon, 
which  had  been  struggling  through  the  mists  of  coming  morn- 
ing, shone  suddenly  for  a  moment  full  upon  the  ghastly  object 
before  them,  and  lit  it  brightly  up. 

They  sav/  what  Redmond  O'Donnell  had  expected  to  see — 

AN  EMPTY  COFFIN. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"the  length  of  his  tether." 

H'^.  r  fateful  July  night,  destined  to  be  marked  forever 
in   the    calendars   of  Lady  Dangcrfield  and  Captain 
Redmond  O'Donnell,  was  fated  likewise  to  be  marked 
with  a  red  cross  in  that  of  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna. 
"  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  has  run  the  length  of  his  tether,"  Lord 


It    i: 
,  i;    ■ 

\ 

||| 

( 

k;_E>    \ 

438 


"  THE  LENGTH  OF  HIS   TETHERS 


i 


it 


Rnysland  had  calmly  said,  to  himself  while  pacing  the  Castle- 
ford  station  ;  "it  is  high  time  to  ])ull  him  short  up." 

]<'or  Loid  Ruysland  to  decree  was  to  act.  Ihis  very  night 
Sir  Arthur  should  receive  his  "short  pull  up." 

He  waited  placidly  where  he  was  ;  he  saw  iMajor  I'Vanklanc' 
return,  still  gloomy  and  in  the  sulks,  saw  him  depart  an  houi 
later  by  the  Parliamentary  train,  and  not  until  then  did  he  sum- 
mon the  fly,  and  give  the  order  to  Scarswood  Park.  There 
was  no  hurry,  the  young  baronet  was  with  the  Park  party  at 
Morecambe ;  they  were  to  return  to  dhiner,  not  sooner.  He 
was  going  to  play  his  last  great  stake  to-night.  If  he  failed,  his 
whole  future  might  be  told  in  one  brief,  forcible  word — ruin; 
but  not  one  pulse  beat  quicker,  not  one  sign  of  agitation  or 
eagerness  marred  the  serenity  of  his  handsome  patrician  face. 
As  coolly,  as  deliberately  as  he  had  pronounced  sentence  of 
iloom  upon  young  O'Donnell  six  years  ago,  he  was  going  to 
bring  Sir  Arthur  to  his  bearings  to-night. 

The  archery  party  returned ;  separated  for  a  brief  space, 
and  met  again  at  dinner.  My  lady  was  seized  with  that  distress- 
ing headache,  and  disappeared  immediately  after.  Miss  Hern- 
castle  in  her  wake.  Sir  Peter  in  a  few  minutes  followed  suit. 
Miss  O'Donnell,  looking  pale  and  fagged,  made  her  excuses 
and  sought  her  room.  Lady  Cecil  insisted  upon  accompanying 
her.  Squire  Talbot  cut  short  his  visit  and  moodily  departed. 
Lord  Ruysland  and  Sir  Arthur  were  left  alone  before  it  was 
(]uite  half-past  nine.  Fate  seemed  inclined  to  take  sides  with 
the  peer.  Two  minutes  after  'talbot's  departure  he  o[)ened 
the  duel,  and  fired  the  first  shot. 

"  What  is  this  about  a  letter  from  Cornwall  and  your  depart- 
ure to-morrow.  Sir  Arthur?  I  heard  you  telling  Lady  Danger- 
field  at  dinner,  but  did  not  quite  catch  your  drift.  Business,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  business — business  too  long  deferred.  Pennwalder 
wrote  me  a  week  ago  urging  Ine  to  return.  There's  a  fever 
among  my  people,  there  have  been  mining  accidents  and  much 
distress.  It  is  greatly  to  my  discredit  that  I  have  neglected  my 
duty  so  long." 

"  Humph  !  then  you  positively  leave  us  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  positively  leave  to-morrow.  I  wish  I  had  gone  last 
week." 

He  said  it  moodily,  drumming  with  his  fingers  on  the  table, 
and  not  looking  at  his  companion. 

"  So  do  I,"  Lord  Ruysland  spoke  gra,vely,  and  with  unwonted 


"  THE  LENGTH  OF  HIS   TETHER."" 


439 


energy  ;  "  so  do  I  with  all  my  soul.  For  the  last  week  Scars- 
wood  iias  been  no  place  for  you." 

«  My  lord  ! " 

"It  is  high  time  for  me  to  speak — a  false  delicacy  has 
restrained  me  too  long.  I  would  indeed  prove  unworthy  the 
dying  trust  of  my  dearest,  my  truest,  my  best  friend,  your  dead 
father,  if  I  held  my  peace  longer.  To-night  1  will  speak,  be 
the  consequences  what  they  may — to-night  I  will  do  my  duty, 
however  distasteful  that  duty  may  be.  Long  before  your 
return  to  this  house,  if  return  you  are  mad  enough  to  do,  I  and 
Cecil  will  have  gone,  and  it  is  neither  my  wish  nor  my  intention 
that  we  three  shall  ever  meet  again.  My  daughter's  health 
demands  change — she  is  falling  into  low  spirits — 1  will  take  her 
to  Scodand  to  the  Countess  of  Strathearn's  for  the  winter.  I 
merely  mention  this  that  you  may,  make  your  farewells  to  her 
final  when  you  part  to-morrow." 

A  flush  rose  up  over  the  blonde  face  of  the  Cornishman,  a 
deep  permanent  flush ;  his  lips  compressed,  liis  eyes  did  not 
leave  the  table.  Guilt,  shame,  contrition  were  in  his  counte- 
nance, and  guilt  held  him  silent.  Let  Lord  Ruysland  say  what 
he  might,  he  could  not  say  one  word  more  than  he  deserved. 

"  I  see  I  do  not  take  you  by  surprise,"  his  lordship  coldly 
went  on  ;  "I  see  you  are  prepared  for  what  I  would  saj'.  How 
bitterly  I  have  been  disappointed  in  you — of  all  I  had  exi)ected 
from  your  father's  son — of — I  may  say  it  now  on  the  eve  of 
]iarting  forever — of  the  plans  I  had  formed — of  the  hopes  I  had 
cherished — it  would  be  idle  to  speak  to-night.  Hopes  and  jilans 
lire  all  at  an  end — your  father's  dying  wish  binds  vie  no  longer 
since  you  have  been  the  first  to  disregard  it.  V>\\t  still  for  your 
fiither's  sake  I  will  speak.  On  his  death-bed  he  asked  me  to 
stand  in  his  place  toward  you.  Hitherto  I  have  striven  to  do 
so — hitherto  I  have  held  you  as  my  own  son — all  that  too  is 
changed.  You  have  deliberately  chosen  to  become  infatuated 
with  a  woman  of  whom  you  know  nothing — except  that  she  is 
your  inferior  in  station — deliberately  chosen  to  throw  us  all 
over,  and  fall  in  love  with  a  designing  adventuress." 

That  deep,  angry  red  still  burned  en  the  baronet's  face,  his 
lips  were  still  resolutely  compressed,  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon 
the  table.     At  the  last  words,  however,  he  suddenly  looked  up. 

"  Designing  adventuress  !  "  he  repeated,  slowly.  "You  use 
strong  words,  Lord  Ruysland.  Of  course  you  do  not  make 
such  a  statement  as  that  upon  mere  suspicion." 

"  I  do  not.     I  condemn  no  one  up  ni  mere  suspicion.     That 


'! 


rl  V' 

it'- 

ll 

440 


"  THE  LENGTH  OF  HIS   TETHER^ 


I! 


■'  ; 


I 


I  susi)cct  Miss  Hcrncastle  of  some  deep,  mischievous,  latent 
object  in  coming  here,  is  true ;  that  I  suspect  her  of  maliciously 
working  upon  that  poor  little  sui)erstitious  fool,  Sir  Peter,  and 
his  fears,  and  of  playing  ghost  for  his  benefit,  is  also  true.  JJut 
let  that  go — it  has  nothing  to  do  with  you,  and  for  your  sake 
simply  I  speak.  You. have  haunted  Miss  Herncastle  like  her 
very  shadow  from  the  moment  you  met  her  first — for  her  you 
have  pointedly,  almost  rudely,  I  had  said,  neglected  and  over- 
lookeil  all  others.  There  was  but  one  way  for  this  to  end  with 
a  man  of  your  high  sense  of  honor — in  marriage.  Ilefore  that 
disastrous  consummation  is  reached  I  lay  a  few  plain  facts 
before  you.     Afterward  you  will  do  as  you  please." 

lie  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  little  packet  of  papers,  and 
spread  two  of  them  out  upon  the  table. 

"  lie  kind  enough  to  glance  over  these,  Sir  Arthur.  They 
are  tlie  testimonials  of  character,  and  the  references  given  by 
Miss  Herncastle  in  London  to  Lady  Dangerfield." 

Still  dead  silent,  the  young  Cornishman  took  them.  The 
tesliinonials  were  carefully  worded,  the  references  were  to  a 
Mrs.  Lawton  of  Wilton  Crescent,  and  a  Jonas  Woodvvidge, 
es{[iiire,  of  St.  John's  Wood.     He  read  and  pushed  them  back, 

"  W'cU,"  he  said,  in  a  compressed  voice. 

*'  Read  this  also."  The  earl  pushed  another  letter  across  to 
him.  "  I  wrote  that,  as  you  see,  to  my  solicitor,  asking  him  to 
call  upon  Mrs.  Lawton.  You  have  read  it.  Now  read  his 
answer." 

He  pushed  a  third  letter  across.     For  the  third  time  the 

baronet  read. 

"Lincoln  Inn,  London,  July  29th. 

"My  Lord: — In  compliance  with  your  demand  I  called  at  Wilton 
C'rcscciU  at  the  number  given.  No  Mrs.  Lawton  lived  there,  or  had  ever 
lived  there.  I  next  called  at  St.  John's  Wood;  a  Mr.  Jonas  Woodwidge 
had  resided  there  about  a  year  ago,  but  has  emigrated  with  his  whole  fani- 
il)i  to  Australia.     This  is  all  the  information  I  have  been  able  to  obtain. 

"  I  am,  my  lord,  etc." 

Sir  Arthur  laid  down  the  letter.  The  flush  had  faded  from 
his  face,  leaving  him  very  pale. 

"  It  is  [)lain  to  be  seen  by  any  one  not  willfully  blind,  that  the 
references  are  forged,  by  Miss  Herncastle,  of  course,  for  her 
own  ends.  If  Lady  Dangerfield  had  taken  the  trouble  to  seek 
thorn  and  find  this  out  for  herself,  "o  doubt  her  very  clever 
governess  would  have  been  prepared  with  some  plausible  story 
to  account  for  it.     This  much  I  must  certainly  say  for  Miss 


♦♦  THE  LENGTH  OF  HIS   TETHER:' 


441 


Hcrncastle — she  is  one  of  the  vciy  cleverest  women  I  ever 
met.  Do  you  need  farther  proof  that  she  is  a  designin}^  advent- 
uress ?  Let  nie  tell  you  what  my  own  eyes  have  sixmi — siit- 
ficient  in  itself  to  cure  you  of  your  fol'",  if  this  sort  of  folly  is 
ever  to  be  cured." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  looking  sternly  at  Sir  Arthur  sit- 
ling  like  a  culprit  in  the  dock  before  him,  and  went  on. 

"  it  was  the  very  night  before  Sir  Peter  saw  the  ghost  under 
1  i(j  iving's  Oak,  of  which  more  anon.  It  was  a  hot  niglit,  bril- 
liauc  moonlight,  and  it  is  a  failing  of  «iine  that  I  can  never 
sleep  well  on  very  bright  moonlight  nights.  It  was  past  eleven 
when  I  went  u|)  to  my  room.  1  knew  it  was  useless  to  go  to 
bed,  so  instead  I  sat  down  to  write  half  a  dozen  letters.  It  was 
half-past  twelve  when  I  finished  the  last — 1  lit  a  cigar  and  sat 
down  by  the  open  window  to  smoke  myself  into  sleepiness  if  I 
could.  The  stable  clock  struck  one,  still  I  felt  no  inclination 
toward  drowsiness.  While  1  still  sat  there,  to  my  surprise,  I 
saw,  at  that  hour,  a  woman  and  man  crossing  the  fields  and 
ap[)roaching  Scarswood.  If  you  have  noticed,  and  beyond 
doubt  you  have.  Miss  Herncastle  possesses  a  \c(y  stately  walk 
— a  very  commanding  figure.  I  knew  her  instantly — 1  also, 
after  a  moment  or  two,  recognized  the  man.  Of  him,  however, 
it  is  needless  to  speak.  He  accompanied  her  to  the  very 
house  ;  they  parted  almost  directly  under  my  window.  1  heard 
him  promise  not  to  betray  her.  She  appeared  to  be  absolutely 
in  his  power.  When  he  left  her  she  stood  and  watched  him  out 
of  sight.  All  this  was  nearly  about  two  in  the  morning,  mind, 
when  everybody  supposed  the  governess  to  be  in  bed  and 
asleep.  How  she  got  in  I  don't  know.  She  came  down  the 
next  morning,  looking  as  self-possessed  and  inscrutable  as  ever. 
My  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  I  watched  again  the  following 
night.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  as  surely  as  I  tell  you,  I  saw  her 
steal  softly  under  my  window,  a  fe  y  minutes  before  midnight, 
and  take  her  post  under  the  King's  Oak.  The  gallop  of  Sir 
Peter's  horse  could  be  distinctly  heard  on  the  :Foad.  She  wore 
a  long  dark  mantle,  aad  as  he  rode  up  the  r venue  I  saw  her 
iliiig  it  olf  and  stand  befoxC  him  all  in  white — her  hair  Howing, 
her  eyes  fixed.  What  followed  you  know.  She  picked  up  her 
cloak  and  made  her  way  back — how,  Heaven  knows.  I  tell 
you  the  simple  truth — to-morrow  I  shall  tell  it  lo  all  the  house 
— to-morrow  Miss  Herncastle  quits  Scarswood,  and  forever. 
To-night  1  warn  you^  Arthur,  my  lad — my  son  almost.  Pause 
while  it  is  yet  time — give  up  this  miserable  designing  nTMiian, 
19* 


442 


"77/£  LENGTH  OF  HIS   TETHER r 


■^,'i 


1?  >  % 


and  forever.  Do  not  bring  disgrace  on  your  dead  fadier — on 
your  honored  name — and  lifelong  misery  on  yourself,  do  to 
('ornwall — go  abroad — do  anything — anything,  only  see  Miss 
Ilerncastle  no  more." 

The  earl's  voice  broke — grew  actually  husky  in  the  intensity 
of  his  emotion — in  the  i)erfection  of  his — acting.  And  still  Sir 
Arthur  sat  like  a  stone. 

**  It  has  been  a  bitter  blow  to  me — a  blow  more  bitter  than 
I  can  say.  15ut  I  have  learned  to  bear  many  bitter  things  in 
my  life — this  is  but  one  more  keen  disappointment  added  to 
the  rest.  Jt  will  be  better  perhaps  that  we  do  not  meet  to- 
morrow— let  me  say  it  now — good-by,  and  may  Heaven  bless 


you, 


Arihui 


He  rose  and  grasped  the  young  man's  hand.  Sir  Arthur 
arose  too — c^uite  white  now,  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

*•  One  moment,  my  lord — then  good-by  if  you  will.  All  yon 
have  said  I  have  deserved — no  one  can  feel  how  I  have  fallen 
from  honor  and  manhood  more  than  1.  Whether  it  is  still  too 
late  to  repair  my  great  fault  must  rest  with  you.  What  I  have 
retiuned  to  England  for— ^what  I  came  to  Scarswood  for — you 
must  surely  know.  I  shame  to  speak  it.  It  was  to  see  and 
know  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  and  if  sfic  could  so  far  honor  me,  make 
her  my  wife.  On  the  night  1  first  met,"  he  paused,  and  spoke 
the  name  with  a  sort  of  effort,  *'  Miss  Herncastle,  1  had  fol- 
lowed the  Lady  Cecil  into  the  boudoir  to  place  my  fate  in  her 
hands.  Of  the  spell  that  seemed  to  seize  me  from  that  mo- 
ment, you  know  only  too  well — it  is  a  sort  of  madness  that  I 
sup[)Ose  few  escape.  For  a  time  I  was  blind — I  saw  no  danger 
— latel''  my  eyes  have  been  opened  to  my  own  guilt.  There 
is  but  one  who  can  be  my  wife — whether  or  no  I  have  wronged 
her  too  greatly  to  ask  her,  you  may  decide.  If  so,  then  I  l':ave 
iMigland  the  moment  my  Cornish  business  is  settled — if  not," 
he  paused.  "  It  shall  be  as  you  say,  my  lord."  He  folded  his 
arms,  very  white,  very  stern,  and  awaited  his  answer. 

The  bound  that  battered  old  organ,  the  earl's  heart,  gave  at 
the  words  !  He  was  saved !  But  his  immovable  face  reaiained 
as  innnovable  as  ever. 

'*  You  are  but  mortal,  Arthur,  and  Miss  Herncastle  is  i  most 
attractive  woman.  Without  possessing  a  single  claim  to  beauty, 
she  is  a  woman  to  fascinate  men,  where  the  perfect  face  of  a 
goddess  might  fail.  She  is  a  Circe,  whose  power  all  must  feel. 
It  is  not  too  late,  I  hope,  1  trust ;  and  yet  Cecil  is  very 
proud.     If  she  can  forgive  and  accept  you,  /  can,  with  all  n^y 


"  riFE    .ENGTII   OF  HIS    TETHER r 


443 


heart.  I  shall  not  say  good-by,  then,  but  good  night  and  au  re' 
voir'' 

He  left  hini  before  Sir  Arthur  could  sj)eak — left  him  alone  in 
the  brightly  lit,  empty  drawing-room.  He  stood  irresolute,  then 
turned  and  followed  the  carl  from  the  room. 

Now  was  the  time — now  or  never  ;  let  him  hear  his  fiite  at 
once.  Something  lay  like  a  stone  in  his  breast— the  dark,  be- 
guiling face,  the  soft  flute  voice  of  Helen  Herncastle  was  before 
his  eyes,  in  his  ears.  Of  all  the  women  on  earth  she  was  the 
one  woman  he  would  have  chosen  for  his  wife,  and  Destiny  had 
written  that  he  must  never  look  on  her  face  again. 

In  passing  the  length  of  the  drawing-room  to  the  door,  he 
had  to  go  by  the  tiny  boudoir,  where,  on  the  evening  of  the 
theatricals,  he  had  followed  Lady  Cecil.  The  curtains  were  only 
])artly  drawn,  and  seated  within,  her  hands  folded  listlessly  in 
her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dim  starlight,  he  saw  once  more, 
as  on  that  evening,  the  earl's  daughter.  As  on  that  evening,  he 
swept  back  the  curtain,  and  stood,  tall  and  dark,  by  her  side. 

Her  half-uttered  exclamation  died  away.  Before  she  could 
speak  one  word  he  was  saying  what  he  had  come  to  say — hur- 
riedly— incoherently — his  face  all  set  and  stern,  looking  as 
unlike  a  lover  as  can  well  be  conceived.  She  drew  a  little  away 
from  him,  her  clasped  hands  tightened  over  one  another. 
She  sat  perfectly  still  and  listened — a  sort  of  scorn  for  him — a 
sort  of  scorn  for  herself — an  utter  weariness  of  everything,  the 
only  feelings  she  was  conscious  of  She  listened  with  steady 
patiei.ce  to  the  end. 

"  He  was  unworthy  of  her — infinitely  unworthy  ;  he  esteemed 
and  admired  her  with  all  his  heart ;  it  had  been  his  dying 
father's  wish — he  had  her  father's  consent.  Would  Lady  Cecil 
Clive  do  him  the  honor  to  become  his  wife?" 

She  looked  up  at  the  last  words,  flushing;,  red  in  the  darkness. 

"  My  father's  consent,"  she  repeated  slowly.  "  Sir  Arthur, 
tell  me  the  truth.  My  father  has  been  talking  to  you  to-night  ? 
He  has — oh  !  how  shall  I  say  it — he  has  ordered  you  to  follow 
me  here  and  say  this  ?  " 

"  On  my  sacred  honor,  no.  /  have  been  talking  to  your 
fiither — asking  his  permission  to  address  you.  I  have  said 
before  I  am  unworthy  ;  if  you  refuse  me  I  shall  feel  I  am 
receiving  the  punishment  I  richly  merit.  If  you  accept  me  it 
will  be  t!ie  study  of  my  life  to  make  you  happy." 

He  stood  and  waited  for  her  answer.  "  His  punishment," 
she;   repeated   with  inward  scorn.     "Ah,  yes,  Sir  Arthur,  my 


444 


"  THE  LENGTH  OF  HIS   TETHER:' 


u  . 


!• 


refusal  would  be  a  punishment  not  over  hard  to  bear.  He 
asks  me,  hoping — yes,  hoping — though  he  may  not  acknowledge 
it  himself,  that  I  will  refuse,  and  1 — I  must  say  yes." 

She  must  say  yes — her  whole  future,  her  father's,  depended  on 
it.  She  could  not  brave  his  anger — she  could  not  live  this  life 
forever — what  would  become  of  her  If  she  refused  ?" 

All  at  once  Toiiyglen  rose  before  her,  and  Redmond  O'Don- 
nell's  face,  bright,  eager,  loving.  Yes,  in  those  days  he  had 
loved  her.  He  had  changed — she  was  no  more  to  him  now 
than  his  cousin  Ginevra,  and  while  Hfc  lasted,  she  must  love 
him.  No  time  to  shirk  the  truth  now,  she  loved  Redmond 
O'Donnell,  and  this  man  >/ho  stood  beside  her  asking  her  to  be 
his  wife  loved  Helen  Herncastle.  What  a  miserable,  travestied 
world  it  was,  what  wretched  hypocrites  and  cheats  theyallwere. 

Why  had  she  not  been  born  a  farmer's  daughter  to  hold  life 
with  a  wholesome,  hearty  interest,  to  love  her  husband  and  be 
loved  in  return  ? 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  Sir  Arthur  said.  "  I  have  lost  all 
hold  on  your  respect  and  esteem,  as  I  deserve.  Lady  Cecil, 
will  you  not  speak  at  least,  and  let  me  hear  my  fate  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  say?"  she  asked  wearily,  a  touch 
of  pain  and  impatience  in  her  voice.  "  You  ask  me  to  be  your 
wife.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — you  are  a  man  of  truth  and  honor 
— you  have  lost  neither  my  respect  nor  my  esteem.  Tell  me 
truly — truly — do  you  really  wish  me  to  say  yes  ?" 

"  1  really  wish  you  to  say  yes.  If  you  do  not  say  it,  then  I 
leave  England  again  in  a  month — for  years — for  life." 

She  drew  her  breath  hard — she  spoke  with  a  sort  of  gasp. 

"  You  will  leave  England  !  Then  there  is  no  one  else  you 
will  marry  if — " 

"  There  is  no  one  else  I  will  marry  if  you  refuse — no  one." 

He  said  it  resolutely — a  hard,  metallic  ring  in  his  tone,  his 
lips  set  ahiiost  to  pain. 

*'  There  is  no  one  else  I  will  marry — if  you  refuse  me  I  leave 
England.     Once  more,  Lady  Cecil,  will  you  be  my  wife  ?  " 

*'  I — will  be — your  wife." 

The  words  were  si)oken — her  voice  faltered — her  face  was 
steadily  turned  to  the  still  moonlight.  It  was  over.  He  took 
her  hand  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips.  How  chill  its  touch,  but 
scarcely  so  chill  as  the  lips  that  touched  it.  Then  it  was  drawn 
away  and  she  stood  up. 

"  I  leave  here  for  Cornwall,  as  you  know,  to  be  absent  two — 
almost  three  weeks.     To-morrow,  before  I  go,  I  shall  speak  to 


:cl 


to  bear.     He 

:  acknowlcclo-u 
s." 

depended  on 
t  live  this  life 
?" 

"ond  O'Don- 
days  he  had 
to  him  now 
ii-'  niust  love 
Redmond 
»g  Ikt  to  be 
)le,  travestied 
they  all  were, 
r  to  hold  life 
band  and  be 

have  lost  all 
I^ady  Cecil, 
e?" 

■lily,  a  touch 
e  to  be  your 
h  and  honor 
n.     'I'ell  me 

ly  it,  then  I 
>  >> 

of  gasp, 
ne  else  you 

7-no  one." 
is  tone,  his 

lue  I  leave 
wife  ?  " 

r  face  was 

I  le  took 

ouch,   but 

kvas  drawn 

cnt  two — 
1  si)cak  to 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE. 


445 


W 

I 


\ 


Lord  Rujsland.  Whatever  I  have  been  in  the  past — this  much, 
Lady  Cecil,  you  may  believe  of  me — that  you  will  ever  be  first 
in  my  thoughts  from  this  hour — that  I  will  make  you  happy  if 
the  devotion  of  a  life  can  do  it." 

'*  1  believe  you,"  she  held  out  her  hand  of  her  own  accorol 
now,  "  and  trust  and  honor  you  with  all  my  heart.  It  is  late, 
and  I  am  tired.     Good-night,  Sir  Arthur." 

"  Cood-night,  Lady  Cecil." 

She  left  him  standing  there  and  went  up  to  her  own  room. 
What  a  farce  it  had  all  been — she  half  smiled  as  she  thought  of 
it,  love-making  without  a  word  of  love,  a  proposal  of  marriage 
without  a  spark  of  affection  between  them.  They  were  like 
two  i)upi)cts  in  a  Marionette  comedy  playing  at  being  in  love. 
But  it  was  all  over — her  father  was  saved — she  would  make  a 
brilliant  marriage  after  all.  She  had  accepted  him,  and  fulfilled 
her  destiny.  Her  name  was  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate — Lady 
Cecil  Tregenna. 


CHAPTER  XXH. 

AFTER   THE    MASQUERADE. 

Y  the  first  train  on  the  morning  following  the  discovery 
in  the  churchyard,  Mr.  Joggins,  in  a  third-class  car, 
went  back  10  London.     By  the  same  early  train  in  a 
first-class  compartment,  Captain  Redmond  O'Donnell 
went  up  to  London  also. 

It  was  a  murky,  dismal  morning — this  morning  of  the  first 
of  August ;  a  sky  like  drab  paper,  a  sultry  o[)[)ressiveness  in 
the  atmosphere.  It  would  rain  nnd  thunder  presently,  and 
clear  tlie  air  ;  pending  the  thunder  and  rain  it  recjuired  an  ab- 
solute effort  to  breathe.  Captain  O'Donnell  had  the  compart- 
ment all  to  himself,  and  ample  time,  as  the  express  whirled 
him  Londonward,  to  think.  He  sat  back  with  folded  arms  and 
bent  brows  ;  Miss  Hcrncastle's  pale,  set,  cold  face  before  him 
all  the  way.  His  last  doubt  had  been  removed — the  Kathe- 
rine  Dangerfield  of  the  past,  the  Helen  Herncastle  of  the  pres- 
ent, were  one  and  the  same.  He  knew  as  well  as  he  ever 
knew  after  the  whole  truth — the  whole,  strange  story.     It  had 


44<5 


AFTER    THE  MASQUERADE. 


1  I 


not  been  death,  that  trance  which  had  held  her,  but  one  of 
those  mystic  torpors  which  minds  and  bodies  have  fallen  into 
often  before — a  cataleptic  trance,  so  closely  resemblinr;  its 
twin  sister,  death,  as  to  deceive  Dr.  Graves.  IJut  the  eyes  of 
love  a»"j  not  easily  blinded  j  Henry  Otis  had  guessed  from  the 
first,  lo  doubt,  what  it  was.  Why  he  had  not  spoken — why 
he  had  let  the  matter  go  so  far  as  to  permit  her  to  Le  buried, 
rather  staggered  the  chasseur.  Was  it  that  he  feareci  to  find 
his  opinion  of  her  being  still  living  ridiculed?  or  that  by  saving 
her  from  the  horrible  fate  of  being  Lnried  alive  he  wished  to 
forge  a  claim  upon  her  gratitude  and  love  ?  One  or  the  other 
it  must  have  been — if  the  latter,  he  had  certainly  failed,  or  by 
this  time  she  would  have  been  his  wife.     And  that  same  night 

-  aided,  no  doubt — he  had  reopened  the  grave  and  taken  the 
still  inanimate  form  from  its  dreadful  resting-place.  He  could 
see  it  all — the  resurrectionist,  the  story  trumped  up  for  the 
servant  next  morning,  the  mysterious  sick  young  lady,  who  was 
yet  able  to  take  midnight  walks  with  the  "  master"  in  the  gar- 
den— the  brooding  of  that  powerful  mind — that  strong  intellect 
in  llie  solitude  of  the  lonely  cottage.  In  that  quiet  upper 
room,  no  doubt,  the  whole  plan  of  the  future  had  been  laid — 
the  whole  plot  of  vengeance  woven.  Perhaps,  too,  the  narrow 
Ijoundary  line  that  separates  madness  from  reason  had  been 
crossed,  and  much  thinking  had  made  her  mad. 

Then  had  come  her  flight — her  exile  to  America — her  the- 
atrical success.  Her  object  in  this  had  probably  been  to  make 
money  to  carry  out  her  plans,  and  she  had  made  it.  She  had 
returned — had  worked  her  way  into  the  family  of  Sir  Peier 
Dangerfield — and  for  the  past  six  weeks  played  her  rule  of 
nursery  governess.  But  where  was  her  revenge  ?  \Vhat  had 
she  gained?  what  had  she  accomplished  beyond  playing  ghost, 
anil  frightening  the  little  baronet  nearly  out  of  iiis  senses  ? 
Was  it  worth  while  to  take  so  much  trouble  for  that,  to  risk  so 
much  to  gain  so  little — or  was  it  that  some  deeper,  darker, 
ileaillier  [)lan  of  vengeance  lay  yet  ahead?  If  so,  then  perhaps 
he  was  in  time  to  frustrate  it,  and  yet,  in  this  moment  there 
was  more  of  admiration  than  any  other  feeling  for  Miss  Hern- 
castle  up[)ermost  in  his  mind.  "Has  your  own  fatt'  been 
ordered  so  smoothly  that  you  should  be  the  first  to  hunt  down 
to  her  rum  a  poor  wretch  with  whom  life  has  gone  hard  ?  " 
The  bitter  patlios  of  her  own  words  came  back  with  a  feeling 
almost  like  remorse.    "  With  whom  lite  had  gone  hard  "  indeed 

—  who  had  been  gifted  with  a  great,  generous,  loyal,  loving 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE. 


>■>  but  one  of 
ve  fallen  into 
semblinr   its 
t  the  eyes  of 
ssed  from  the 
l^noken— why 
to  L  e  buried, 
reared  to  find 
hat  by  saving 
he  wished  to 
or  the  other 
failed,  or  by 
Lt  same  night 
fifl  taken  the 
•     He  could 
^  "P  for  the 
ady,  who  was 
"  in  the  gar- 
ong  intellect 
t]iiiet  upper 
been  laid— 
h  the  narrow 
n  had  been 

:a— her  the- 
-en  to  make 
t-  She  had 
f  Sir  Peter 
'ler  role  of 

}Viiat  had 
y'"g  ghosf, 
is  senses  ? 
.  to  risk  so 
er,  darker, 
-n  i)erha|js 
i'ent  tiierc 
liss  Hern- 
fafc   been 
Hint  down 
e  hard  ?  " 

a  feeling 
I  "  indeed 
al,  loving 


AA7 


heart,  such  as  i?  rarely  given  to  woman,  a  heart  that  had  been 
broken,  a  nature  that  had  been  brutally  crushed  until  it  had 
become  warped  and  wicked  as  he  found  it  now.  One  of  these 
women  formed  of  the  stuff  that  makes  the  Charlotte  Cordays, 
Joans  of'Arc,  or  Lucretia  Borgia  as  Fate  will. 

*'  Surely  the  saddest,  strangest  fate  that  ever  befell  woman 
has  been  hers,"  he  mused  ;  "  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred 
would  have  sunk  under  it — died  of  a  broken  heart,  a  ruined 
life,  or  given  up  the  battle  years  ago,  and  drifted  into  eternal 
obscurity.  But  Katherine  Dangertield  is  the  hundredth  who 
will  fight  to  the  bitter  end.  For  Sir  Peter  it  signifies  little — 
lie  richly  deserves  all  she  is  making  him  suffer — but  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna  and  Lady  Cecil  Clive  are  quite  another  matter. 
Tl.:re  she  must  go  no  further.  This  last  warning  she  shall 
have — Otis  may  have  influence  over  her.  If  she  defies  it  then 
Tregenna  shall  know  all.  The  epitaph  of  Maria  Theresa  ap- 
plies well  to  her,  '  Scxa  famina  ingenio  vieJ  '  A  woman  by 
sex,  but  a  man  in  mind.'  " 

He  entered  a  hansom  on  his  arrival  at  the  metropolis,  and 
drove  at  once  to  the  residence  of  Dr.  Otis.  It  was  a  cosey  cot- 
tage hanging  to  the  outskirts  of  the  genteel  neighborhood  of 
St.  John's  VVood,  wherein  the  young  Castleford  practitioner 
had  set  up  his  household  gods.  At  the  entrance  of  the  quiet 
street  he  dismissed  the  cab,  opened  the  little  garden  gate, 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  A  neat  maid-servant  answered 
promptly. 

"  Was  Mr.  Otis  at  home  ?  " 

The  neat  maid  shook  her  pink-ribboned  head. 

"  No,  sir,  not  at  home — won't  be  at  home  until  to-morrow — 
run  down  to  the  country  for  his  'elth.  But  if  it's  a  patient," 
brightening  suddenly. 

"  It's  not  a  patient — it's  business — important  business.  You 
don't  appear  to  know,  I  suppose,  what  part  of  the  country  your 
master  has  gone  to." 

The  pink  ribbons  shook  again. 

"  No,  sir — he  often  goes — the  country  he  calls  it — ^just  that. 
But  if  it's  himportant  business,  misses,  sh^s  in,  and  will  see 
yni,  1  dare  say.    What  name  shall  I  say  sir?" 

O'  Donncll  paused  a  moment.  Mr.  Otis  had  probably  gone  to 
Castleford  to  see  Miss  Herncastle,  and  no  doubt  /lis  wixmc  was 
flimiliar  to  both  n. other  and  son  by  this  time.  If  he  sent  in  his 
caicl  she  might  refuse  to  see  him ;  he  rather  preferred  to  take 
her  by  surprise. 


448 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE. 


m 


I 


.ii  ■ 


• '  Well,  sir,"  the  young  person  in  the  pink  ribbons  interposed, 
impalieiilly. 

"Just  tell  your  mistress  a  gejitleman  desires  to  see  her  foi 
five  minutes — I  won't  detain  her  longer." 

The  girl  vanished — reappeared.  "  Misses  will  see  you. 
Walk  thij  way,  sir,  i)lease,''  she  announced,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment he  was  ushered  into  the  parlor  and  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Olis. 

It  was  like  the  parlor  of  a  doll's  house,  so  diminutive,  so 
spick-and-span,  so  glistening  neat,  and  the  little  old  lady  with 
her  pleasant,  motherly  face,  her  gray  silk  dress,  her  snow-white 
nuislin  cap  and  neckerchief,  sitting  placidly  knitting,  was  in 
size  and  neatness  a  most  perfect  match  for  the  room. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me,  sir."  The  knitting  was  suspended 
for  a  moment,  as  she  looked  curiously  and  admirnigly  up  at  the 
tall  ligure  and  handsome  face  of  the  Chasseu'*  d'Afrique. 
"  Pray  come  in  and  take  a  seat." 

"Thanks,  madame.  It  was  your  son  I  desired  to  see,  but  in 
his  absence  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  do  equally  well  to  say  what 
J  have  come  to  say  to  you.  Mr.  Otis  is  in  the  country,  your 
servant  tells  me — that  means  the  town  of  Castleford,  in  Sussex, 
does  it  not  ?" 

Her  knitting  dropped  in  her  lap — the  little  old  lady  gave  a 
gasp.     He  saw  at  once  he  had  guessed  the  truth. 

"I  see  I  am  right,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  have  come  direct 
to-day  from  Castieford,  Sussex,  myself  On  the  occasion  of 
your  son's  last  visit  to  that  place  I  believe  I  chanced  to  sec 
him.  It  was  in  the  cemetery  ;  you  recollect  the  little  Methodist 
cemetery,  no  doubt — just  outside  the  town  and  adjoining  your 
former  residence.  Yes,  I  see  you  do.  I  saw  him  in  the  cem- 
etery talking  to  a  lady  by  appointment,  I  judge  ;  rather  an  odd 
l)hice,  too,  for  a  tryst,  by  the  way.  The  lady  was  Miss  Helen 
1  lenicastle.     Do  you  know  her,  Mrs  Otis  ?  " 

Again  Mrs.  Otis  gave  a  sort  of  gasp,  her  i)leasant,  rosy, 
molherly  face  growing  quite  white.  There  were  no  words 
needed  here — her  face  answered  every  (question.  He  felt  a 
si)ecies  of  compunction  for  alarming  her  as  he  saw  he  was  do- 
ing, but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"  You  know  Miss  Herncastle?"  he  said,  not  without  a  smile 
at  her  evident  terror  ;  "  and  are  interested  in  her  welf:vre.  Your 
son  did  her  great  service  once,  and  is  in'r  nearest  and  most 
confidential  friend  still.  It  is  of  Miss  Herncastle  I  have  come 
to  I.oudou  to  speak,  knowing  that  you  and  Mr.  Otis  have  hex 


le. 


s  interposed, 

see  her  foi 

II  see  you. 
he  next  mo- 
nice  of  Mrs. 

minntive,  so 
>ld  lady  witli 
snow-white 
ting,  was  in 
m. 

s  suspended 
;ly  up  at  the 
■   d'Afrique. 

3  see,  but  in 

to  say  wliat 

3untry,  your 

J,  in  Sussex, 

lady  gave  a 

:ome  direct 
occasion  of 
need  to  sec 
-'Methodist 
jining  your 
n  the  ceni- 
:lier  an  odd 
Vliss  Helen 

Lsant,  rosy, 

no  words 

He   felt  a 

le  was  do- 

)ut  a  smile 
are.  Your 
and  most 
lave  come 
j  have  hei 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE, 


449 


welfare  at  heart.  She  must  leave  Scarswood,  and  at  once,  ot 
else, — or  else,  painful  as  my  duty  may  be,  Sir  Peter  Danger- 
field  shall  know  the  whole  truth." 

The  knitting  dropped  on  the  floor — litUe  Mrs.  Otis  rose  to 
her  feet  pale  and  trembling. 

"  Who  are  you,  sir  ?  "  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  whisper.  "  Who 
are  you  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Redmond  O'Donnell." 

She  uttered  a  low,  terrified  exclamation — then  in  frightened 
silence  sank  back  into  her  chair.  Yes,  she  recognized  the  name 
— had  heard  all  about  him,  and  now  sat  pale  and  trembling 
with  nervous  dread,  looking  at  him  with  wild,  scared  eyes. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  frighten  and  agitate  you  in  this  way,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Otis,"  he  said,  speaking  very  gently,  "and — if  Miss 
Herncastle  will  listen  to  reason — there  is  really  nothing  to  be 
frightened  about.  But  one  thing  or  other  she  must  do — leave 
Scarswood  or  tell  the  truth." 

"The  truth?" 

"That  she  is  Katherine  Dangerfield — not  lying  in  Castle- 
ford  churchyard,  but  alive  and  in  the  flesh.  You  see  I  know  all 
—all." 

She  sat  looking  at  him,  pale,  helpless,  speechless  with  fear 
and  amaze. 

"  I  know  all,"  O'Donn-ill  repeated.  "  That  what  all  took  for 
death  was  merely  a  trance,  and  that  your  son  alone  knew  it. 
Knowing  it  he  allowed  her  to  be  buried,  and  that  same  night 
secretly  had  the  cofiin  opened,  and  its  living  inmate  removed. 
He  restored  her  to  life  and  consciousness.  You  kept  her  hid 
in  your  house.  She  passed  for  Miss  Otis,  and  was  never  seen 
by  any  one  but  yourself  and  your  son.  At  night,  when  all  was 
asleep,  she  took  her  airing  in  your  garden,  and  after  remaining 
a  fortnight,  until'  perfectly  restored,  she  ran  away.  She  went 
to  America — she  became  an  actress,  made  money,  and  re- 
turned to  England.  She  had  sworn  vengeance  upon  Sir  Petei 
Dangerfield,  and  all  these  years  had  never  faltered  in  her  pur- 
pose. She  made  her  way  into  his  family  as  governess,  and  has 
nearly  driven  him  out  of  the  few  senses  he  possesses,  by  playing 
ghost.  It  is  a  daring  game  she  is  carrying  on.  She  is  a  bold 
woman,  indeed.  That  Katherine  Dangerfield  and  Helen  Hern- 
castle are  one  and  the  same,  no  one  but  myself  knows  or  sus- 
jiects.  There  is  the  grave  where  they  saw  her  buried,  the 
tombstone  with  its  false  inscription,  to  stagger  them.  I  alone 
know — I  KNOW,  Mrs.  Otis.    Shall  I  tell  you  how  ?    I  have  done 


450 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE, 


i 


what  your  son  did — I  opened  the  grave — I  opened  the  coffin, 
and  found — it  empty.  No  mouldering  remains — no  shroud- 
no  ghastly  skull  and  bones,  and  dust  and  ashes,  but  a  clean 
and  empty  coifui.  How  I  have  discovered  the  rest  floes  not 
niatter,  I  know  the  whole  truth.  I  am  prepared  to  prove  it. 
Whats'ver  motive  keeps  Miss  llerncastle  at  Scarswood,  beyond 
tliat  of  terrifying  its  sujierstitious  little  master,  I  don't  know, 
but  it  is  a  sinister  motive,  a  revengeful  motive — of  that  I  am 
sure.  And  as  they  arc  my  friends  1  cannot  stand  l)y  and  see  it. 
J,et  Miss  llerncastle  go  to  Sir  Pi.^ter — to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 
— to  Lord  Ruysland  or  his  daughter,  and  tell  tliem  her  story, 
and  then  stay  her  lifetime,  if  she  chooses,  and  the}'  permit,  if 
she  will  not,  then  1  will  tell  all,  and  give  Sir  Peter  a  chance  to 
defend  himself  from  a  foe  so  ready  to  stab  in  the  dark.  1  might 
have  said  all  this  to  herself,  but  she  has  looked  ui)on  me  as  her 
enemy  from  the  fust,  and  would  set  all  warning  of  mine  at  de- 
fiance. Your  son  is  her  friend — let  him  speak  and  she  may 
heed.  1  have  no  wish  to  be  hard  upon  her — I  |)ity  her — 1  even 
admire  her — she  has  sulFered  greatly;  but  nothing  save  evil 
can  come  of  the  cc^urse  she  is  pursuing  now.  She  must  speak 
before  this  week  ends,  or  leave  Scarswood — that  is  my  ulti- 
matum." 

lie  arose.  "I  see  that  I  have  distressed  you,  Mrs.  Otis — ■ 
alarmed  you — and  1  regret  having  done  so.  There  is  no  occa- 
sion for  alarm,  however.  Miss  Herncastle  has  only  to  drop  her 
mascpierade  and  come  forwa:d  in  her  true  character,  and  1  am 
ready  and  willing  to  become  her  friend  instead  of  her  enemy. 
But  1  will  not  stand  by  and  see  this  deception  go  on.  1  wish 
you  good-afternoon." 

He  turned  to  go,  but  Mr.s.  Otis,  in  the  same  frightened  sort 
of  way,  made  a  motion  for  him  to  remain. 

"  You — you  take  a  good  ideal  for  granted,"  she  yaid,  in  a  gasp- 
ing sort  of  voice.  "  1  never  admitted  that  I  knew  Miss  Hern- 
castle— that  she  is  Katherine  Dangerl'ield  ;  and  1  think  it  was 
Mhikcd  of  you,  and  sacrilegious,  to  dare  to  open  her  grave.  She 
was  hunted  down  in  her  life,  i)oor  girl,  and  it  appears  she  cannot 
be  left  in  jjeace  even  in  her  grave.  1  have  heard  of  you  before, 
Ca])tain  O'Donnell — of  your  watching,  and  following,  and  inter- 
fering where  you  have  no  business."  She  stopped  as  a  smile 
broke  over  his  face. 

"From  whom,  madame?  since  you  do  not  own  to  knowing 
Miss  Herncastle.  You  are  right,  too — /  have  watched  and 
followed.     Fate  seems  to  have  taken  a  malicious  pleasure  in 


AFTER    THE  MASQUERADE. 


451 


ned  the  coffin, 
—no  shroud— 
•S  but  a  clean 
icst  floes  not 
d  to  prove  it. 
wood,  beyond 
I  don't  know, 
-of  that  I  am 
by  and  see  it. 
nir  'I'regeniia 
^'111  her  story, 
■■)'  iJcrinit,     \{ 
-r  a  chance  to 
lark.     I  n light 
>on  nie  as  her 
f  ii)ine  at  de- 
aiid  she  niay 
K  her— I  even 
iing  save  evil 
'^'  nnist  speak 
t    is  my  ulti- 

,  Mrs.  Otis- 
re  is  no  occa- 
y  to  drop  her 
■er,  and  I  am 
f  her  enemy. 
•  on.     1  wish 

giitencd  sort 

id,  m  a  gasp- 
Miss  Hern- 
diink  it  was 
grave.  She 
s  she  cannot 
you  before, 
?,  and  inter- 
i  as  a  smile 

to  knowing 
Itched  and 
pleasure  in 


r'-cing  me  against  her.  And  as  I  find  the  role  of  amateur  de- 
tective disagreeable  enough  in  itself,  I  trust  Miss  Herncastle 
will  not  comi)el  me  to  add  that  of  informer  to  it.  l^ut  if  she 
persists,  )'OU  may  tell  her  from  me,  that  I  never  shirk  any  duty, 
however  personally  unpleasant.  Once  more — good-day,  madame 
— here  is  my  card — my  London  address  is  on  the  back  ;  I  shall 
remain  in  town  three  or  four  days  If  Mr.  Otis  returns  during 
that  time,  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  him." 

And  then  the  chasseur  bowed  himself  out,  and  never  had  the 
new  duty  which  so  strangely  devolved  upon  him  of  all  mankind, 
been  half  so  distasteful  as  when  he  took  his  last  look  at  poor 
little  trembling  Mrs.  Otis'  distressed  face. 

"  ('onfound  the  whole  affair  !  "  he  thought,  savagely  ;  "  I  wish 
to  Heaven  I  had  never  seen  Scarswood,  nor  anyone  in  it. 
Wliat  is  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  to  me  ?  or  Sir  Arthur  Tregenr  , 
cither,  for  that  matter,  that  I  should  f:ght  their  battles'*  Now 
that  i  have  got  into  the  thick  of  the  fray  it  is  impossible  to  get 
out  without  dishonor  somewhere  ;  I  can't  shut  my  eyes  and 
see  the  one  driven  stark  mad  with  his  superstitious  ghost-seeing, 
and  the  life-long  misery  of  the  other  insured.  I  wish  I  might 
see  this  Henry  Otis.  Why  can't  Miss  Herncastle  marry  him 
-and  settle  down  into  a  sensible  common[)lace  matron  ?  " 

He  waited  impatiently  during  the  four  ensuing  days,  but  he 
waited  in  vain.  If  Mr.  Henry  Otis  had  returned  to  town,  he 
(lid  not  call  upon  Captain  O'Donnell ;  and  disgusted  and  des- 
])erate,  on  the  evening  of  the  fifth  he  returned  once  more  to 
Caslleford. 

He  presented  himself  at  Scarswood  at  once.  He  had  not 
seen  his  sister  for  a  week.  It  was  close  upon  eight  o'clock, 
and  the  silver  gray  of  the  summer  evening  was  deepening  into 
twilight,  as  he  walked  up  the  avenue.  The  flutter  of  a  white 
dress  caught  his  eye  amid  the  dark-green  depths  of  fern ;  a  tall, 
slender  shape,  with  bright,  hazel  hair,  was  slowly  pacing  the  ter- 
race alone.  It  was  Lady  Cecil.  A  soft  mass  of  rose-pink 
cashmere,  silk,  and  down,  wrapped  her.  She  held  a  letter  in 
her  hand  which  she  read  as  she  walked.  And  even  in  that 
"dim  religious  light"  O'Donnell  saw,  or  fancied,  that  the  fair 
])ale  face  had  grown  paler  and  graver  than  ever  he  had  seen  it, 
in  those  five  past  days. 

"  Lady  Cecil." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  stood  before  her.  She  had  not  heard 
him  until  he  spoke.  A  faint,  tremulous  Hush  rose  up  over  the 
sensitive  face  as  she  turned  and  gave  him  her  hand. 


452 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE, 


\\ 


.•l;,l 


U!. 


"  Cp  in  O'Donnell !  and  just  as  we  all  began  to  give  you 
11,  ''^  ist.  I  am  glad  you  have  come — I  have  been  wishing 
for  i<ui  Ti'    peak  ably.     Do  you  know  that  Rose  is  ill  ?" 

*•        ^j  ..ai'l  something  of  it,  but  I  thought — " 

"  She  is  rv_  ^;  ill — something  has  hap|)cned — I  don't  knovr 
what,  only  that  Miss  Herncastle  is  at  the  bottom  of  that  too. 
Your  sister  has  worked  herself  into  a  fever — she  has  neither 
eaten  nor  sl'^pt,  I  believe,  since  you  went  away.  Something  is 
preying  ovi  her  mind — something  which  Miss  Hi^rncastle  alone 
knows.  Oh,  that  dreadful  Miss  Herncastle !  Why  did  she 
ever  enter  this  house!  Captain  O'Donnell,  we  are  in  trouble 
— terrible  trouble — and  j/^<?  is  the  cause  of  it  all.  Do  you  know 
that  she  is  gone?" 

"  (}one  !  " 

*'  lieen  dismissed — discharged — sent  away  in  disgrace.  It  is 
the  strangest  thing — the  most  wickedly  malicious  ;  and  whatever 
her  object  could  have  been  puzzles  us  all." 

"  Lady  Cecil,  you  puzzle  me.  What  new  enormity  has  Miss 
Herncastle  been  guilty  of?" 

"  You  do  well  to  call  it  enormity.  She  has  parted  Sir  Peter 
Dangerficld  and  his  wife — for  life,  1  greatly  fear." 

He  had  been  walking  by  her  side — he  stopped  and  looked  at 
her  now.  He  had  delayed  loo  long — he  had  shown  her  his 
cards  and  let  her  win  the  game.  He  had  thought  to  spare  her, 
and  the  mischief  was  done. 

"  Parted  Sir  Peter  and  his  wife  !  Do  I  hear  you  aright,  my 
dear  Lady  Cecil?" 

"  It  sounds  incredible,  does  it  not  ?  Nevertheless,  it  is  true. 
You  remember  the  masquerade  at  Mrs.  Everleigh's  last  Thurs- 
day— that  most  miserable  masquerade  ?  Ciinevra  would  insist 
ui)()n  going  \/ith  Major  Frankland  as  the  Page  Kaled — he  as 
the  Knight  Lara.  Sir  Peter  hates  Mrs.  Everleigh — he  abhors 
mastiuerades  and  male  costumes  for  women.  Of  course,  he 
was  right  and  Ginevra  was  wrong,  but  his  very  opposition  made 
hei-  more  resolute  to  go.  He  told  iier  if  she  went  she  should 
never  return,  that  she  should  not  live  under  his  roof  and  dis- 
grace it.  Cincvra  defied  him  ;  but  in  her  heart,  she  owns  now, 
she  was  afraid,  and  ready  to  draw  back.  But  that  fatal  Miss 
Herncastle  would  not  let  her.  She  had  suggested  the  costumes, 
made  (iinevra's,  and  used  every  persuasion  to  induce  her  to  defy 
Sir  Peter — deceive  him  r.^-her,  and  go.  Ginevra  yielded.  She 
wrote  a  note  at  the  dictation  of  the  governess,  to  Major  Frank- 
land,  in  London,  telling  him  of  Sir  Peter's  opposition,  asking 


»■  ';^^l 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE. 


453 


m  to  giVe  you 
[e  been  wishinn 
fsill?"  ^ 

-I  don't  kno\f 
Ji"  of  that  too. 
|ie  has  neither 

Something  is 
l^rncastle  alone 

VVhy  did  siie 
|are  in  trouble 

1^0  you  know 


lisgrace.     It  is 
and  whatever 

niiity  has  Miss 

jrted  Sir  Peter 

and  looked  at 
'hown  her  his 
itto  si)are her, 

oil  aright,  jny 

less,  it  is  true. 
''s  last  Thurs- 
a  would  insist 
valed— he  as 
'i— he  abhors 
3f  course,  he 
position  made 
t  she  should 
roof  and  dis- 
•e  owns  now, 
t  fatal  Miss 
he  costumes, 
:e  her  to  defy 
*'ielded.    She 
fajor  I'rank- 
ition,  asking 


him  to  come  secretly  down,  remain  at  one  of  the  inns,  and  go 
from  thence  to  the  ball.  My  poor  cousin  cannot  even  keep 
her  own  secrets,  and  she  told  me.  I  said  everything  I  could 
think  of  to  shake  her  resolution,  but  in  vain.  Finally  I  told 
])a|)a  ill  despair,  and  made  him  waylay  the  train  at  the  station. 
You  remember— -he  xw^iiyon  that  same  afternoon  He  talked  to 
Major  Frankland,  and  the  major  finally  agrecv'  ,o  've  up  the 
ball,  (linevra,  of  course,  would  not  dream  c,l  g  /g  without 
him.  r.ut  he  insisted  upon  seeing  her,  and  \.  '/ng  .,r  with  his 
own  lii)s.  Unfortunately  we  were  all  at  Mon^  ■'iL  o  at  an  archery 
])arty,  and  when  he  reached  Scarswood  ho  ."  and  only  Miss 
Jlerncastle.  He  wrote  a  note  explaining  11;  lold  her  to  have 
his  masfjuerade  dress  returned,  and  left  1  That  note  Miss 

Herncastle  destroyed — she  owns  it ;  and,  Captain  O'Donnell 
— it  scenis  almost  incredible — she  went  to  the  masquerade  in- 
stead of  Major  Frankland  and  in  his  dress  1  The  major  is 
short,  the  governess  is  tall — she  managed  to  make  the  Lara  cos- 
tume fit  her.  No  one  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  before.  You 
will  scarcely  be  able  to  believe  it" 

"  I  can  believe  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Herncastle.  She  is  a 
wonderful  woman  I " 

"  A  wonderful  woman,  indeed — it  is  to  be  hoped  there  are 
few  like  her,"  Lady  Cecil  responded  indignantly ;  "  and  yet, 
though  something  seemed  to  warn  me  against  her — she  had  a 
sort  of  fascination  for  me  from  the  first.  Well,  Captain  O'Don- 
nell, it  happened  in  this  way :  We  returned  from  the  archery  fete ; 
(linevra  pretended  headache  and  retired  to  her  room.  All  the 
while  Sir  Peter  was  on  the  watch.  Miss  Herncastle  dressed 
hei — a  llyman  from  Castleford  was  in  waiting,  and  he  took  her 
to  Mrs.  Everleigh.  The  governess  had  managed  to  secrete  the 
Lara  dress  in  her  room,  and  the  moment  Lady  Dangerfield  was 
gone,  she  rapidly  dressed  herself,  and  walked — actually  walked 
from  Scarswood  to  Mrs.  Everleigh's  house.  Sir  Peter,  in  spite 
of  their  precautions,  had  seen  his  wife  depart,  and  followed  im- 
mediately. At  Mrs.  Everleigh's  he  procured  a  black  domino, 
and  in  that  disguise,  and  masked,  of  course,  he  watched  the 
jiagc.  The  knight  arrived  in  due  time — rather  late,  perhaps, 
and  neither  (iinevra,  dancing  or  talking  to  him,  or  Sir  Peter 
watching,  deemed  it  was  other  than  the  major." 

"  Well,"  O'Donnell  said,  curtly. 

*'Supi)er  came,  and  under  plea  of  going  for  an  ice,  Count 
Lara  disappeared,  (linevra  had  to  go  down  on  the  arm  of  an- 
othir  gentleman.     At  supper  there  was  the  usual  universal  un- 


454 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE, 


f  yi     f  ij 


It  *    (I 


niasldiig,  and  the  first  face  poor  Gincvra  saw  was  that  of  Sir 
Pclcr.  Iiiiai^ino  her  feelings  !  And  the  major  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  A  ii:oment  after,  Sir  Peter  disappeared,  and  my  unfort- 
unate cousin,  half  dead  with  fear,  made  her  way  from  the  sup- 
l)er-room  and  the  house,  and  reached  home  in  the  lly,  the  most 
jtitiahie  object  )ou  ever  saw.  Her  first  (piestion  was  for  her 
luishand — her  lirst  imi)ulse  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet  and  iui- 
l)lore  his  forgiveness.  But  he  was  not  here — he  has  not  been 
here  since." 

"  Not  here  since?" 

"No,  Captain  O'Donnell.  If  he  had  come  home  and  raged 
■and  stormed  there  might  have  been  some  hope — now  I  fear 
there  is  none.  He  is  in  Castleford,  and  his  London  solicitor 
is  with  him,  stopping  at  the  Scarswood  Arms.  Me  refuses  to 
see  his  wife — he  will  never  see  her  again,  he  says,  as  long  as 
he  lives.  Papa  has  been  with  him — 1  have  been  with  him — 
all  in  vain.  He  is  harder  than  stone — harder  than  iron.  She 
has  made  his  life  miserable  long  enough — that  is  his  answer. 
If  she  were  dvinfj  he  would  not  see  her  now.  He  told  her  if 
she  went  to  that  woman's  house — in  male  attire,  to  meet  Jas- 
per Frankland,  she  should  never  live  beneath  roof  of  his.  And 
she  never  will." 

"  Ikit  it  was  not — " 

"It  was  not  Major  Frankland.  Yes — yes,  he  knows  that ; 
it  makes  no  difference ;  nothing  makes  any  difference.  I  be- 
lieve he  hates  her  and  only  wants  a  pretext  for  separation. 
This  horrible  masquerade  and  more  horrible  governess  have 
gu-(.'n  him  that.  He  knows  Jasper  Frankland  was  in  London, 
and  ihi't  Miss  Herncastle  played  the  double  ])art  of  Major 
and  Lara  on  that  fatal  night.  His  answer  is  that  that  has 
nothin'j;  to  do  wiih  it-^his  wife  went  in  the  full  belief  that  it 
wis  Frankla'id,  in  male  attire,  and  to  the  house  of  a  woman 
of  doub'-ftil  character.  If  there  were  grounds  for  divorce, 
a  divo'ce  he  would  have;  as  there  are  not,  he  will  still  have 
a  sei)aration.  Lady  Dangertield  may  remain  here  until  the 
necessary  documents  are  drawn  up — then  she  leaves,  and 
foi  ever.  She  is  nearly  insane,  and  no  wonder ;  think  of  the 
exposure,  the  scandal,  the  disgrace.  And  to  know — to  know 
it  is  all  that  wicked,  revengeful  woman's  work." 

lie  h.ad  never  seen  her  so  moved,  so  excited,  so  agitated  in 
her  life  \Vas  this  the  cause  of  the  change  he  saw  in  her  altered 
face? 

<  *  ■ 


li '  .ij 


12k. 


^^ss^ 


AFTER   THE  MASQUERADE. 


455 


Ms  that  of  Sir 

nowhere  to  be 

and  my  unfort- 

fioni  the  sup- 

I'lc  lly,  the  most 

Jon  was  for  her 

[lis  feet  and  ini- 

has  not  been 


lome  and  raged 
pe— now  I  fear 
ondon  sohcitor 
Mo  refuses  to 
'^lys,  as  long  as 
on   with  him  — 
lan  iron.     She 
t  is  his  answer, 
lie  told  her  if 
o,  to  iDeet  Jas- 
ofofhis.    And 


lie  knows  that ; 
ference.  I  be- 
for  separation. 
:overness  have 
^is  in  London, 
part  of  Afajor 
that  that  has 

belief  that  it 
e  of  a  woman 

for  divorce, 
will  still  have 
ere  until   the 

leaves,    and 

think  of  tile 
ow — to  know 

'o  agitated  in 
in  her  altered 


"  And  how  was  it  all  discovered  ?  Did  Miss  Herncastle 
confess  at  once  ?  " 

"Miss  Herncastle  has  not  confessed  at  all.  In  some  way 
she  reached  Scarswood  before  Ginevra — she  must  have  had  a 
conveyance  waiting,  and  was  one  of  the  fnst  to  receive  her  in 
her  ortlinary  dress.  The  tunnilt  poor  (linevra  made  aroused 
the  house.  In  the  cold  gray  of  the  morning  we  all — papa 
among  the  rest — gathered  about  her.  She  told  her  story  in  an 
incoherent  way.  Papa  listened  in  amazement.  *  Frankland,' 
he  saitl,  '  Frankland  at  the  '..11 ! — impossible  !  I  myself  saw 
him  de[)art  for  London  by  the  Parliamentary  train  at  6.20  last 
evening.  Frankland  is  in  London.'  He  was  positive,  Ginevra 
was  positive.  The  end  of  the  matter  was  he  telegraphed  to 
Major  Frankland  in  London — was  he  there  or  had  he  been  at 
the  ball !  The  answer  came  at  once — he  had  not  been  at  the 
ball,  was  then  in  London,  and  would  run  down  at  once.  He 
did  so,  and  then  the  murder  was  out.  '  Had  she  not  got  his 
note?'  'What  note?'  'The  explanatory  note  given  to  Ivliss 
Herncastle,'  '  Certainly  not,'  Miss  Herncastle  was  summoned 
and  confronted  with  the  indignant  major.  '  What  had  she  done 
with  his  note?'  And  Miss  Herncastle  looked  him  full  in  the 
face,  and  told  him  she  had  destroyed  it." 

"  Did  she  say  why?  " 

"  She  said  (and  you  should  have  heard  how  coolly)  that  she 
thought  it  a  pity  Lady  Dangerfield  should  be  deprived  of  the 
ball,  and  of  wearing  the  dress  upon  which  she  had  set  her 
heart,  for  a  jealous  whim  of  Sir  Peter's  and  a  prudish  whim 
of  the  major's.  She  destroyed  the  note,  and  allowed  Lady 
Dangerfield  to  go  and  enjoy  herself  Who  then  had  person- 
ated the  major — herself?  But  on  this  subject  Miss  Herncastle 
was  mute — as  obstinate  as  Sir  Peter  himself  The  Lara  dress 
was  found  packed  in  its  box  in  the  major's  room,  and  the  gov- 
erness refused  to  confess  or  deny  anything.  They  might  sus- 
pect what  they  chose — accuse  her  of  anything  they  liked.  If 
they  could  not  proVe  their  charges  they  had  better  be  silent — 
she  would  admit  nothing.  And  she  would  not.  Ginevra  flew 
into  a  terrible  passion  and  ordered  her  out  of  the  house,  and 
she  went — without  a  word." 

OTJonnell  drew  a  long  breath, 

"  By  George  !  "  he  said,  "  here  is  a  mare's  nest.  And  where 
has  she  gone,  Lady  Cecil  ?" 

"  To  London — three  days  ago.  Ijefore  she  left,  she  had  an 
interview  with  your  sister,  since  when  Rose  has  been  unable 


456 


AFTER    THE  MASQUERADE. 


IH 


A 


to  U:;ivo  Ikt  room.     Antl  Gincvra  is  in  hysterics   in  hirs.     I 
never  saw  papa  so  worricil— so  unnoyccl  in  nil  my  life  before. " 
He  says   Miss  Iieincastle  is  Sutan  himself  in  crinoline,  a\Kl 
that  all  her  mischief  is  not  done  yet." 

"  I  ac;ree  with  his  lordship.  And  her  champion — her  ad- 
mirer of  other  days,  the  chivalrous  Cornishman — where  is  he 
that  he  does  not  break  a  lance  in  favor  of  this  persecuted  lady  ?  " 

The  soft  sunnner  dusk  might  have  hidden  from  any  other 
than  the  keen  blue  eyes  of  O'Donnell,  the  Hush  that  rose  ui) 
all  over  Lady  Cecil's  fair  fiice. 

"It  is  hardly  a  fitting  time  or  subject  for  Captain  O'Donncll's 
sarcasm,"  she  answered  coldly.  "Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  in 
Cornwall.  He  left  very  early  on  the  morning  following  the 
mas(|uerade — before  the  news  had  spread." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Cecil— believe  me  I  sympathize 
wiih  you  at  least.  Will  you  pardon  me  again,  if  1  say  I  feel 
but  very  little  for  Lady  Uangerfield.  Her  own  disobedience 
has  wrought  her  ruin — she  has  no  one  to  blame  but  herself" 

"  That  does  not  make  it  any  easier  to  bear.  IJut  1  know  of 
old  h(nv  little  sympathy  you  have  for  human  error.  She  may 
have  done  wrong,  but  she  is  suffering  now,  and  suffering  goes 
far  to  atone  for  sin." 

She  had  grown  white  again — her  face  looked  like  marble  in 
the  faint  misty  light.  She  was  looking  away  from  him  as  she 
spoke,  a  wistfulness,  a  passion  in  her  brown  eyes  he  could  not 
umierstand. 

"  1  dare  say  people  who  go  through  life  as  you  have  gone, 
neither  loving  nor  hating  very  greatly,  can  afford  to  be  cynical, 
\nd  hard,  and  cold.  You  have  never  suffered  yourself — nor 
erred,  I  suppose — how  are  ycu  to  understand  or  feel  for  your 
weaker  fellow-mortals  who  do  ?  But  at  least  I  hope  you  will 
be  able  to  descend  from  your  tower  of  strength  far  enough  to 
symjiathi/.e  with  your  sister.  Be  gentle  with  her,  Captain 
O'Donnell — at  least  as  far  as  you  understand  the  word,  for  she 
is  in  trouble.  Don't  be  too  hard — your  life  is  not  all  over — 
even  you  may  learn  what  it  is  to  suffer,  before  you  die  ! '' 

She  turned  from  him,  and  was  gone — the  graceful  willowy 
figure,  the  Hashing  haze)  eyes.  The  passion  in  her  voice — what 
did  it  mean  ?  He  watched  her — an  inexplicable  look  on  his 
face — a  hard  sort  of  smile  on  his  lips. 

"  Kven  you  may  learn  what  it  is  to  suffer  before  you  die." 
He  repeated  her  words  inwardly,  as  he  took  his  way  to  his  sis- 
ter's room.      "  Ah,  Lady  Cecil,  you   taught   me  that  lesson 


**S/X   YEARS   TOO  LATE.'' 


[cs   In  /urs.     I 

(niy  life  before. ' 

crinoline,  and 

h 'ion— her  ad- 
Ji — where  is  he 
jt-'cuted  huly  ?  " 

roni  any  other 
[li  that  rose  ii|) 

[in  O'Donnell's 

Vegc-nna  is  '\n 

following  the 

.  r  symi)alhi/e 
'f  1  say  I  feel 

)  disobedience 
'n\i  herself" 
^^iit  1  know  fi" 
ror.     She  may 
suffering  goes 

like  marble  in 
3m  him  as  she 
5  lie  could  not 

OH  have  gone, 
to  be  cynical,' 
youri^elf— nor 

feel  for  your 
[lope  you  will 
iir  enough  to 
lier.  Captain 
word,  for  she 
>t  all  over — 

die  !  •' 

;eful  willowy 
voice— what 

look  on  his 

e  you  die." 

ly  to  his  sis- 

tbat  lesson 


457 


thoroughly  six  years  ago.  I  was  a  fool  then — a  fool  now — and 
1  lear  the  folly  will  go  with  me  to  my  grave."  lie  tapped  at 
his  sister's  door.  "  It  is  I,  Rose,"  his  familiar  voice  said. 
•*  May  I  come  in  ?" 

lie  heard  a  stilled  c.y  from  within — a  cry  of  terror  it  sounded, 
and  his  heart  smote  him.  Poor  little  Rose  !  Had  it  come  to 
this — had  he  been  hard  aiul  unfeeling  with  her,  and  taught  her 
to  fear  instead  of  love  him?  With  the  remorseful  thouglit  still 
in  his  mind,  the  door  opened  and  she  stood  before  him. 


CHAPTER  XXHI. 


SIX     YEARS     TOO     LATE. 


OOR  little  Rose,  indeed  I     In  the  dusk  she  came  glid- 
ing forward,   so  unlike  herself — so  like  a  spirit — so 
wan,  so  wasted — that  with  a  shocked  exclamation,  he 
drew  her  to  hun,  and  looked  down  into  her  worn  face. 
"  They  told  me  you  were  ill.  Rose,  but  not  like  this.     If  I 
had  thought  ! — if  I  had  known — " 

She  Hung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  hid  her  face  on  his 
«hoidder. 

"  Don't,  Redmond.  Don't  look — don't  speak  to  me  like  that. 
I  don't  deserve  it — 1  don't  deserve  any  love  or  kindness  from 
you.  1  have  deceived  you  shamefully.  You  will  despise  me 
— you  will  hate  me  when  I  have  told  you  all," 

"  Will  I  ?  I  am  not  sure  of  that.  When  you  have  told  me 
all,  I  think  I  shall  still  be  sorry  to  see  those  hollow  cl;  (  's  and 
sr.nken  eyes,  and  wasted  hands.     Shall  1  light  the  lamps,  Ro^ 


jj-e, 


or — " 

"  No,  no  !  no  lights  ;  such  a  wretch  as  I  am  should  tell  iivi 
story  in  the  dark.  Here,  sit  down  in  this  chair,  Redmoml,  ami 
let  me  take  this  stool  at  your  feet.  At  your  feet,  my  fuiing 
place." 

"  My  dear  Rose,  a  most  ominous  beginning.  What  must  the 
story  be  like  when  the  preface  is  so  terrible?  Have  you  not 
grown  nervous  and  hysterical,  and  inclined  to  magnify  mole- 
hills into  mountains?  Out  with  it,  Rose  ;  I  promise  not  to  be 
20 


458 


**SIX    YEANS   TOO  LATE.'" 


too  stern  a  father  confessor.     It's  the  story,  I  suppose,  about 
this  fellow  Dantree  ?  " 

She  had  seated  herself  at  his  feet,  her  arms  across  his  knee, 
her  face  1)  ing  upon  it.  He  laid  his  hand  very  gently  on  her 
l)Owed,  humbled  head. 

"  Speak,  Rose.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  have  learned  to  fear 
nu;  like  this.  If  1  was  stern  with  you  the  other  night  I  ask  you 
!o  foigive  me  now.  If  you  and  1  may  not  trust  each  other, 
whom  may  we  trust  ?  I  pron.ise  to  be  merciful.  Is  it  about 
this  fellow  Dantree  ?" 

"  It  is.  Redmond,  I  ought  to  have  told  you  that  other  night, 
but  I  am  a  coward — a  weak,  pitiful  coward.  They  say  a  guilty 
conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all,  and  mine  is  a  guilty  con- 
science indeed.  For  seven  years  I  have  kept  the  secret  I  tell 
you  to-night.  Redmond,"  a  great  gasp,  "  you  asked  me  if 
(laston  Dantree  was  my  lover,  and  I  said  yes.  I  should  have 
told  you  the  truth  ;  he  was  more  than  my  lovei«.  He  was  my — 
husband." 

'The  last  word  seemed  to  uffocate  her.  Siie  crouched  far- 
ther down  as  though  shrinkmg  almost  from  a  blow.  She  had 
expected  a  great  start — an  exclamation  of  aiuaze  and  horror — 
eiiiier  as  hard  to  bear  as  a  blow.  Neither  came.  Dead  silence 
fell.  He  sat  perfectly  still — a  dark  statue  in  the  dark.  What- 
ever look  his  face  wore,  she  could  not  see.  That  pause  lasted 
for  pcrha[)s  ten  seconds — ten  hours  it  seemed  to  her.  Then, 
"  Your  husband  !  This  is  a  surprise.  And  for  seven  years  you 
have  been  this  scoundrel's  wife?" 

"  For  seven  long,  miserable  years.  Oh,  broth c-r,  forgive  me. 
I  have  done  shamefully  wrong — I  have  been  a  living  lie — I 
have  deceived  the  kindest  grandfather — the  dearest  brother, 
but  if  you  knew  what  I  have  suffered — " 

That  choking  in  her  voice  made  her  pause  again.  "  And 
suffering  goes  far  to  atone  for  sin."  He  remembered  Lady 
Cecil's  soft,  sad  words  of  reproach,  and  again  his  caressing 
touch  fell  upon  the  bowed  young  head.  It  had  been  a  blow  to 
him,  a  blow  to  his  love  and  his  pride,  and  both  were  great,  but 
his  voice  and  touch  were  far  more  tender  than  she  had  ever 
known  them  for  years. 

"  I  can  believe  it,"  he  said  ;  **  you  have  atoned  for  your 
folly  indeed.  Don't  fear,  Rose.  I  can  only  regret  that  you 
dul  not  tell  me  lor<jj  ago.     Tell  me  now  at  least — all." 

She  told  him — in  broken  sentences — with  bowed  head,  while 
the  darkness  of  the  August  night  deepened  in  the  little  room, 


t 


"SIX   YEARS   TOO  LATE^ 


ippose,  about 

OSS  his  knee, 
gently  on  her 

arncd  to  fear 
Ljht  I  ask  you 
each  other, 
Is  it  about 

t  other  night, 
y  say  a  guilty 
a  giiihy  con- 
secret  I  tell 
asked  me  if 
should  have 
le  was  my — 

:rouched  far- 
w.  She  liad 
and  horror — 
Dead  silence 
lark.  W'hat- 
pause  lasted 
her.  Then, 
en  years  you 

',  forgive  me. 
living  lie — I 
"est  brother, 

ain.  "  And 
bered  Lady 
is  caressing 
:n  a  blow  to 
e  great,  but 
le  had  ever 

:d  for  your 
et  that  you 
11." 

head,  while 
little  room, 


459 


the  old  story  of  a  girl's  love  and  folly — of  "  marrying  in  haste 
and  repenting  at  leisure." 

"  I   wasn't  quite  eighteen,  and  just  home  from  my  convent 
school  when   I  met  him  first,  with  all  a  twirl's  foolish  dreams  of 


it\ 


II( 


hand^ 


I 


ind  love,  ana  romance 
have  never  seen  such  a  face  as  his — with  the  dash,  and  ease, 
and  grace  of  a  man  of  the  world.  And  if  he  had  been  a  very 
vnlcan  of  ugliness,  his  divine  voice  might  have  won  my  dream- 
ing, sentimental  girl's  heart.  The  aroma  of  contjuest  hung 
about  him — married  ladies  petted  and  spoiled  him — yoimg 
ladies  raved  of  his  ^t'<7//A:_)'67/.vandhis  Mario  voice,  and  i — 1  fell 
in  love  with  him  in  a  reckless,  desperate  sort  of  way,  as  later  I 
suppose  poor  Ivatherine  Dangerfield  did  in  this  very  house.  I 
was  M.  De  Lansac's  reputed  heiress  then,  and  just  the  sort  of 
prize  he  was  looking  out  for.  Very  young,  very  silly,  not  bad-look- 
ing, and  the  heiress  of  one  or  two  million  dollars — a  \)ri/,e  even 
worthy  his  stooping  to  win.  And — an.d  Redmond,  in  these  hrst 
days  I  think  he  even  liked  me  a  little  too.  My  grandfather 
detested  him — forbade  him  the  house — forbade  me  to  see  or 
speak  to  him.  Then  began  my  wrong  doing — I  did  see  him — 
1  did  speak  to  him — I  loved  him — you  wouldn't  understand 
if  I  told  you  how  dearly,  and — and — Redmond — I  consented 
to  a  private  marriage.  He  was  afraid  to  lose  AT.  De  Lansac's 
heiress,  and  I  was  afraid  to  lose  //////.  He  threatened  to  leave 
New  Orleans  and  never  return  if  I  refused.  1  married  him  and 
for  a  little  lime  was  happy  in  a  fool's  Paradise.  Only  for  a  very 
little  while  indeed.  My  grandfather,  in  the  most  unexpected 
and  sudden  manner,  as  you  know,  got  married.  (laston  was 
furious— no  need  to  tell  you  how  he  stormed  and  raved,  or  the 
names  he  called  M.  De  Ivansac.  I  received  my  first  lesson  in 
his  real  character  then.  That  year  he  remained  in  New  Orleans 
—  then  little  I>ouis  was  born,  and  all  his  hopes  were  at  an  end. 
lie  nn'ght  bid  good-by  to  M.  De  Lansac's  great  fortune.  He 
came  to  me  one  night — we  met  in  secret  in  the  grounds — I'ke 
a  man  beside  himself  with  rage  and  disapi)ointment.  He 
accused  me  of  being  the  cause  of  all ;  it  was  bad  enough  to  be 
a  beggar  himself  without  being  deluded  into  marrying  a  beggar, 
lie  bade  me  savagely  keep  our  marriage  a  dead  secret  from 
the  world.  He  was  going  to  England,  he  said  ;  if  he  retrieved 
his  fortune  there  some  day  he  might  send  for  me  ;  if  he  did  not, 
why  I  was  still  safe  at  Menadarva.  That  was  our  parting.  I 
have  never  set  eyes  on  him  since. 

"  He  went  to  England;  he  wrote  me  from  London  and  gave 


i 


:i   i 


460 


**SIX    YEARS   TOO  LATEP 


i 

ij 

;«    i   '    ' 

s  i 

■ 

t 

^1 

t 

i 

j 

n  1 

'  {■ 

ii!  1 

,  |! 

ill 

H 

ill 

'i- 


1'^ 


me  ;i  London  address — some  piiblisliers  there.  I  answered,  but 
received  no  second  letter.  1  waited  and  wrote  again— still  no 
re[)ly.  Then  1  got  dcsjjerate,  the  little  pride  I  had  left  me  rose 
up.  I  wrote  for  the  last  time.  If  he  wished  to  be  free  he 
was  free  as  the  wind  ;  1  wouUl  hold  him  or  no  man  against  his 
will.  Only  let  him  return  my  picture,  and  loiters,  and  consider 
mo  as  dead  to  him  forever.  I  did  not  dream  he  would  take 
liio  at  my  word,  but  he  did  ;  the  next  mail  brought  me  what  I 
asked,  my  letters,  my  picture,  and  not  one  word  beside." 

She  jjaus^'d,  her  breath  coming  in  (juick  short  sobs.  Her 
voice  was  famter  than  ever  when  she  resumed. 

"  I  was  ill  after  that — ill  in  body  and  mind.  A  great  loathing 
of  New  Orleans  and  all  in  it  took  possession  of  me — a  loathing 
of  life,  for  that  matter.  I  wanted  to  die  and  make  an  end 
of  all  the  miserable,  never-ceasing  pain  that  tortured  me.  As 
I  could  not  die,  1  wanted  to  leave  New  Orleans,  the  scene  of 
my  troubles,  forever.  A  great  and  indescribable  longing  to  see 
Ireland  once  more — to  seejw/ — took  possession  of  me.  To 
add  the  finishing  blow,  I  saw  in  an  English  [)aper  the  announce- 
ment of  the  approaching  marriage  of  Miss  Katherine  Danger- 
field,  only  daughter  of  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  of  Scarswood  Park, 
Sussex,  to  Mr.  Gaston  Dantree,  of  New  Orleans,  with  a  low 
roniantic  details.  I  think  1  felt  stimned,  worn  out.  In  a  dim 
sort  of  way  it  struck  me  I  ought  to  prevent  this  marriage.  1 
looked  in  the  i)aper  again,  determined,  if  possible,  to  save  Miss 
Katherine  Dangerfield,  and  dropped  ii  in  despair.  The  wed- 
ding day  was  fixed  for  the  first  of  January  ;  it  was  the  twentieth 
then.  It  was  too  late.  How  was  I  to  tell,  that  in  New  York 
or  elsewhere,  he  might  not  have  still  a  third  wife,  whose  claim 
was  prior  to  mine  ?     I  turnet'  sick  and  cold  with  the  thought. 

"  Redmond,  I  wonder  I  did  not  die.  I  7(.wa'/<v/ to  die.  I  had 
such  a  horror  of  myself — of  him — a  horror  too  of  ever  being  found 
out.  But  there  was  little  danger  of  that  ;  no  one  knew  ;  my 
secret  was  safe  enough.  I  wrote  to  yon,  but  you  had  gone  to 
Algiers.  There  was  no  hope  but  to  remain,  and  diag  out  life 
at  Menadarva.  I  still  read  the  English  papers  for  further  news 
of  him,  and  at  last  I  read  the  cruel  story — the  horrible  tragedy 
pnacted  in  this  house — the  story  of  Katherine  Dangerfield" s 
wedding  day,  and  what  came  after.  She  was  hapi;ier  than  1. 
She  died,  and  I  could  only  live  on  and  boar  my  trouble  alone. 
I  wrote  to  you  again  and  again.  A  desperate  longing  to  know 
whether  (iaston  were  alive  filled  me.  I  didn't  care  for  him — I 
abhorred  hiui  now,  but  I  wanted  to  know.     If  he  were  der.d,  1 


. » 


I 


\ 


=!\vcicd,  but 
n— still  no 
eft  nic  rose 

be  free  he 
against  his 

I  consider 
would  take 
me  what  I 


ic 


bs.     Her 


iO 


at  loathing 
a  loatliinir 

ke  an  end 

1  nie.     As 
scene  of 

,Mng  to  see 
me.      To 

mnounce- 
le  Danger- 
I'ood  Park, 
with  a  lew 
in  a  dim 
iiriage.      I 

save  Miss 

The  wed- 

twentieth 
New  York 
U)sc  claim 

thought, 
lie.     J  had 
.'ing  found 

new;  my 
d  gone  to 
ig  out  life 
iher  news 
e  tragedy 
igerficM's 
jr  than  J. 
jle  alone. 
[  to  know 
>r  him— I 
e  der.d,  I 


**S/X   YEARS   TOO   LATE." 


461 


thought,  and  I  were  free,  I  would  enter  a  convent,  and  fmd 
jtearc  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  I'ut  I  was  years  wailing 
before  you  came.  You  did  come  at  last — you-  brought 
me  here — here  where  he  disappeared,  and  where  I  hoped  to 
tliscover  something  more.  ]Jut  this  man,  Otis,  in  whose  care 
he  was,  has  gone.  I  know  no  more  to-day  than  the  day  we 
came.  This  is  my  story,  Redmond.  Pity  \xm,  forgive  me,  if 
}'ou  can." 

lie  had  listened  in  grave  silence — he  had  never  interrupted 
her  once.     His  hand  rested  still  on  her  soft,  dark  hair. 

"I  pity  you,  I  forgive  you.  It  is  easy  to  do  both.  And  tin's 
is  why  you  came  to  Castleford  ?  Jf  you  had  only  told  me — but 
it  may  not  be  too  late  yet.  Trust  me.  Rose  ;  1  shall  discover, 
and  speedily,  whether  Dantree  be  living  or  dead. 

She  clasped  her  hands  impassionately. 

'•  If  you  only  could.  Oh,  Redmond,  how  good  you  are — how 
good — how  good  !  If  you  only  knew  what  a  relief  it  is  to  have 
told  )ou  this — to  know  that  you  do  not  hate  me  for  what  I 
have  done.  I  dreaded  your  knowing  more  than  anything  else 
on  earth — dreaded  the  loss  of  3'our  love  and  trust.  Even  now, 
but  for  Miss  Herncastle,  I  might  still  be  dumb." 

"Ah,  Miss  Herncastle.  And  she  knows,  of  course  she  does. 
Pray  what  has  this  very  remarkable  Miss  Irleincastle  to  say 
on  the  subject  ?" 

"  She  knew  all,  that  1  am  Gaston  Dantree's  wife — /loiv  she 
knows  it,  she  won't  tell.  She  knows,  too,  whether  he  is  living 
or  dead,  but  she  keeps  her  knowledge  to  herself.  She  told  me 
she  had  little  reason  to  love  or  serve  my  brother's  sister — what 
did  she  mean  by  it  ?  That  you  were  very  clever  in  the  amateur 
detective  line,  and  that  here  was  opening  for  your  genius.  I 
couldn't  understand  her — 1  implored  her  to  tell  me  the  tiulh, 
but  it  was  all  in  vain — she  bade  me  go  to  you  and  tell  you  one 
good  turn  deserved  another.  Redmond,  she  is  a  mystery,  a 
strange,  desperate,  dangerous  woman." 

"A  mystery,"  her  brother  said.  "Well,  perhaps  so,  and  yet 
a  mystery  1  ihink  I  can  understand.  A  dangerous  woman. 
Well,  pjrhaps  so  again,  and  yet  a  woman  almost  more  simied 
against  than  sinning.  I  'pity  you,  Rose,  but  I  pity  Miss  Hern- 
castle more." 

His  sister  looked  up  at  him  in  wonder,  but  the  darkness  hid 
his  face. 

"You  p'ty  her,''  she  repeated,  '' because  she  has  been 
turned  out  of  Scaiswood  ?  " 


462 


**S/X   YEARS   TOO  LATE.'* 


i  •>; 


I        i 


^ 


"Hardly.  I  ever  mind,  Rose;  you  will  hear  it  all  soon 
cnoui^li,  aiul  when  you  do,  1  think  you  will  look  upon  this  de- 
signing governess,  as  1  do,  'more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.'  Let 
us  dro|)  Miss  lierncaslle  and  Gaston  Dantree,  too,  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  talk  of  yourself.  You  must  understand,  of  course, 
that  in  the  present  state  of  domestic  affairs  at  Scarswood,  the 
sooner  all  guests  leave,  the  better.  Lord  Ruysland  and  his 
daughter  are  Lady  Dangerfieid's  relatives,  and  privileged  to 
stav.  I'^or  .\)U — you  nuist  leave  at  once.  Are  ^ou  able  to 
travel  ?     You  look  wretchedly  ill." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  wearily,  "I  think  so.  h  is  more  a 
mind  diseased  than  anything  else.  It  is  such  an  unutterable 
relief  to  have  told  you,  and  obtained  your  fori(ivcnes3  and  help, 
that  I  feel  stronger  already.  You  are  right,  we  must  go  at  once, 
j'wor  Latiy  Dangertield.  Oh,  Redmond,  tiolher,  what  a 
wretched,  wrong-doing  world  it  is  !  " 

"  Wrong-doing,  indeed,"  and  the  chasseur's  moulli  grew 
sterner ;  "  I  have  little  compassion  for  Lady  Dangerfield  or 
any  of  her  class.  Place  Miss  llerncastle,  the  outcast,  and 
Lady  Dangertield,  the  iuiU!  ^d  wife,  in  the  balance,  arid  let  us 
sec  who  will  Lick  the  beam.  Can  you  pack  to-morrow.  Rose  ? 
1  shall  take  you  to  France  at  once.  Then,  when  you  are  safe 
witii  Madame  Landeau,  I  shall  return,  begin  my  search  for 
lOantree,  and  move  heaven  and  earth  until  1  fmd  him." 

She  stoo[)ed  and  kissed  his  hand. 

"  I  can  be  ready.  1  shall  have  only  one  farewell  to  make, 
and  that  is  to  Lady  Cecil.  I  wonder  if  j//^  is  happy — you  have 
heard  her  news,  1  suppose?" 

He  knew  in  an  instant  what  it  was — knew  before  the  words 
were  (piite  uttered.  His  voice — his  grave,  steady  tones — had 
changed  when  he  spoke. 

"  1  have  heard  no  news  of  Lady  Cecil.  What  is  it  you 
mean  ?  " 

"I  mean  her  engagement  to  Sir  Arthur.  He  asked  her  to 
be  his  wife  on  the  night  of  the  masquerade,  and  she  has  con- 
sented. He  departed  for  Cornwall  early  next  morning.  It 
was  Lord  Ruysland  who  told  us,  and  somehow,  Redmond,  I 
don't'  think  she  is  very  much  happier  than  the  rest  of  us,  after 
all.  He  is  very  wealthy,  and  it  is  the  desire  of  her  father's 
heart,  but  yet  1  think — " 

Her  brother  rose  abruptly. 

"  A  great  deal  of  nonsense,  no  doubt,  Rose.  You  women 
never  quite  outgrow  your  sentimentality.    Sir  Arthur  Tregenna 


I 


r 


**SIX   YEARS    TOO  LATE.'* 


463 


t  all  soon 
on  this  de- 
iger.'  J.et 
r  the  pres- 
of  course, 
wood,  llie 
(1  and  his 
vilegcd  to 
:»ii  able  to 

-s  more  a 
nutterable 
■  and  help, 
50  at  once. 
,    what    a 

>nlii  grew 
gerfield  or 
tcast,  and 
and  let  us 
jw.  Rose  ? 
lu  are  safe 
search  for 


I  to  make, 
-you  have 

he  words 
nes — iiad 

is  it  you 

"d  her  to 
has  con- 

ning.     It 

:iniond,  I 
us,  after 

•  father's 


I  women 
Vegenna 


; 


f 


is  a  mate  for  a  princess — she  should  certainly  be  happy.  It 
grows  late.  Rose,  and  you  are  not  strong.  You  had  better 
retire  at  once,  anvl,  by  a  good  night's  rest,  prepare  yourself  for 
to-morrow's  flitting  Good-night,  my  little  sister — let  us  hope 
even  your  clouds  may  have  their  silver  lining." 

He  stooped  and  touched  his  mustached  lips  to  her  pale 
cheek — then  he  was  gone. 

The  house  was  very  still  as  he  passed  out — a  sort  of  awed 
hush,  as  though  it  were  a  house  of  death  or  mourning,  reigned. 

What  a  contrast  to  the  brilliantly  lie,  brilliantly  filled  rooms 
of  a  week  ago.  "  Sic  transit,'^  he  said,  as  his  masculine  tread 
echoed  along  the  vaulted  hall ;  "  life's  a  S(?e-saw — up  and 
down.  And  IvOrd  Ruysland's  daughter's  engagement  to  Sir 
Arthur  Tregenna  is  not  a  week  old,  after  all  !  What  of  that 
little  romance  Lord  Ruysland  told  me  six  years  ago  in  Torry- 
glen  ?  " 

"Ah,  O'Donnell!"  It  was  the  debonnaire  voice  of  Lord 
Ruysland  himself  that  spoke.  "  Glad  to  see  you  again  -  :jlad 
to  see  any  human  being  in  this  miserable  house.  1  supp.'.ic 
you  .have  heard  all — devil  of  an  affair  altogether.  M.r-  O.  ' 
Nick  fly  away  with  Miss  Herncastle.  Who  ever  heard  o'  '  uch 
a    })roceeding    before.       Dressing   herself  up    in    L'rankland'.s 

1  !  she's  a  wondciial 
do  it  for  ?  Out  of 
se,  I  believe  in  my 
soul." 

"  But  it  has  not  been  proven  that  it  really  was  Miss  Hern- 
castle," O'Donnell  said;  "you  all  appear  to  have  taken  that 
for  granted.  She  has  not  pleaded  uilty,  has  she  ?  and  your 
evidence — conclusive  though  it  !na}  be,  is  purely  circumstan- 
tial.    She  owns  to  nothuig  but  having  torn  up  the  note." 

"  She  owns  to  nothing  certainly,  but  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
moral  certainty.  It  may  not  be  evidence  in  a  court  of  law, 
but  it  is  quite  sufficient  to  commit  a  culprit  in  the  domestic 
tribunal.  Miss  Herncastle  wore  the  knight's  dress,  and  went 
to  the  ball,  and  has  got  Lady  Dangerf  'd  into  a  most  infernal 
scrape.     That  is  clear." 

"  Nothing  is  clear  to  me  but  that  Lady  Dangerfield  has  got 
herself  into  a  scrape,"  O'Donnell  answered  with  the  stubborn 
justice  that  was  part  of  his  character.  "Give  the  devil  his 
due,  Lord  Ruysland.  Miss  Herncastle  made  the  dress  for 
Lady  Dangerlield,  but  Mis'-  Herncastle  could  not  compel  her 
to  wear  it  to  Mrs.  Everleig    '  niascjuerade  against  Sir  Peter's 


clolhes,  and  deceiving  even  Ginevra  !     G 
woman  !     And  what  the  dickens  did  si 
l)ure,  innate  malevolence,  and  nothing  . 


i 


464 


**S/X   YEARS   TOO  LATE.'* 


express  coniiuands.  IVfiss  Hcrncastle  may  have  worn  the 
major's  (hcss  and  gone  to  the  niasiiUL'radc  as  Lara,  but  I  doubt 
if  seeing  her  there  iiilhienced  Sir  I'eter  one  w.iy  or  other.  I  lis 
wife  chst)beycd  him — she  went  to  Mrs,  Kverlcigh's  in  male  at- 
tire- -di-fying  liis  threats  and  the  conse(jiiences.  She  is  no 
child  t(/  be  letl  by  Miss  Herncastle  or  any  one  else — she  went 
willi  hi.-r  eyes  open,  knowing  her  danger,  and  I  must  say — think 
\\  hat  you  i>lease — that  in  Sir  I'eter's  place  1  would  do  precisely 
what  Sir  Peter  is  doing." 

'*  I  don't  doubt  it,"  the  earl  responded  dryly ;  "  be  good 
enough  not  to  say  so  to  Sir  Peter,  however,  should  you  see  him. 
He  issullii;iently  bitter  without  aiding  or  abetting." 

"  I  am  hardly  likely  to  see  him.  My  sister  leaves  Scarswood 
to-morrow — Castleford  tl  •  day  after.  I  will  take  her  to  l''rance 
nnd  phice  her  in  charge  of  a  friend  of  ours  there.  Of  course 
ii  is  (|uif!.>  impossible  now  for  her  to  remain  here  an  hour  longer 
than  necessary.  I  am  sorry  for  l.ady  Danger  ".eld — she  has  been 
m(jst  kind  to  Rose — most  hospitable  to  nic.  I  seriously  trust 
this  disagreeable  affair  may  end  amicably  after  all." 

"  V','S,  1  ho[)e  so,"  the  earl  answered  coolly ;  "but  I  doubt  it. 
It  is  hard  on  I-ady  Dangerlield — she  may  have  her  faults  and 
hiT  follies — wlu)  has  not  ?  Hut  with  them  all,  (linevra  was  as 
jolly  a  little  soul  as  ever  lived.  And  it's  a  confounded  bore  for 
me.  now  that  everything  is  settled — "  and  he  stopped  suddenly 
■a\u\  looked  askance  at  his  companion. 

"  Vou  allude  to  Lady  Cecil's  engagement,  T  presume," 
C)'i./()inell  supplemented,  ([uite  cah.ily.  "Rose  has  told  me. 
My  onl\-  surpiise  is,  that  it  should  be  announced  at  this  late 
tlav  as  nc\/s.  I  believe  I  am  correct  in  thinkiiig  it  a  very  old 
utiViir  indeed — of  si.v  years'  standing,  or  more." 

\'  !}•  U^v:  people  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  Raoul, 
]'-a  i  of  Ruysland,  at  a  loss,  but  for  one  brief  nioment  he  was 
at  a  loss  now. 

'•     cry  old  affair — oh,  yes,  very — ever  since  his  father's  death 

—  in  fact,  it  has  be^n  tacitly — jr — underst<KKl — nothing  defuiite 

—  aw — too  y^^ung.  of  course,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  It  was 
Mie  desire  of  the  lat','  Sir  John,  as  well  as  myself,  and — er — the 
yi)ii!ig  people  were  by  no  means  averse  to  carryingout  our  wishes. 

*  All  is  happily  settled  now — the  wedding  will  take  place  without 
aiiv  unnecessary  delay.  Are  you  going  to  Castleford  at  once  ? 
1  should  like  half  an  hour's  conversation  with  you  about,"  he 
hiwered  his  \  .^ice — "  abo*(t  Miss  Herncastle  ;  1  have  placed  a 
detective  on  her  track." 


I 


worn  the 
ii:  I  (ioiibt 
ilier.  His 
1  niulo  :it- 
•'^lie  is  no 

siic;  went 
•;iy-think 

|>rcciscly 

"be  good 
u  see  hini. 

'car.swood 
lo  I'Yance 
Of  course 
)ur  longer 
.'  has  been 
Jusly  trust 

I  doubt  it. 
raiihs"and 
na  was  as 
d  bore  for 
suddenly 

)resumc," 

told  me. 

t  this  late 

L  very  old 

.^e  Raoid, 
It  he  was 

?r's  death 
i;  defniite 
.  It  was 
-er — the 
I r  wishes. 
J  without 
It  once  ? 
)out,"  he 
I'laced  a 


**S/X   YEARS    TOO  LATE-'^ 


46  <; 


■ 


i 


"My  lord  I  "  there  was  an  unmistakable  shock  in  the  words. 

'•  A  detective  on  her  track,"  repeated  the  earl.  **  Take  my 
•«\ord,  O'Donnell,  that  woman  means  mischief,  and  will  do  i* 
yi^l.  I'll  forestall  her  if  I  can — I'll  fnid  out  who  she  is  and 
what  brought  her  here,  before  I  am  many  weeks  older.  I  have 
already  discovered — "  He  paused — the  figure  of  a  man  was 
approaching  them  through  the  darkness.  "Davis?"  the  earl 
said  inlenog.ilively,  ''is  that  you?" 

"  All  right,  my  lord."  The  man  pulled  off  his  cap,  halted, 
and  looked  keenly  at  O'Donnell. 

"do  into  the  library,  Davis — I'll  follow  and  hear  your  re- 
port." 

The  man  l»owed  obsequiously  again,  and  went.  Lord  Ruys- 
land  turned  to  his  companion. 

"  That's  my  detective  ;  past-master  of  his  business,  keen  as 
a  ferret.  I  must  go  and  hear  his  report — it  will  not  detain  me 
long.  Then  I'll  tell  you  all,  and  1  think  you'll  acknowledge 
Miss  Herncastle  is  worth  the  watching.  Wait  for  :iie  in  the 
drawing-room— Cecil's  there,  and  will  amuse  you." 

He  left  him  and  hurried  away. 

Tile  ciiasseur  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment — then,  as  if  his 
determination  was  taken,  turned  and  walked  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

He  nn'ght  have  thought  it  deserted  but  for  the  low  sound  of 
singing  that  cann;  forth.  The  lights  were  down — there  was  no 
one  to  be  seen,  but  far  off  in  the  recess  where  the  piano  stood 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  while  dress  and  the  gleam  of  a  dia- 
mond star.  Very  softly,  very  sweetly  she  sang  an  old  ballad 
that  he  had  been  wont  to  sing  long  ago  in  the  little  cottage 
parlor  at  'I'orryglen  whilst  her  white  fmgers  struck  the  accomi)a- 
niment.  He  crossed  over  and  leaned  with  folded  arms  against 
the  instrument.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  and  sang 
on  : 

"  Oh,  T  loved  in  my  youth  a  lady  fair, 
For  lier  azure  eyes  and  her  golden  hair. 
Oh,  truly,  oh,  truly,  I  loved  her  then. 
And  naught  shall  I  ever  so  love  again 
.Save  my  hawk,  and  my  hound,  and  my  red  roan  steed, 
I'or  they  never  failed  in  my  hour  of  need." 

She  stopped  and  glanced  up  at  him  again.  His  eyes  were 
jixcd  upon  her,  a  steady,  thoughtful^  almost  stern  ga/e.  Again 
she  smiled. 

"  How  fierce  the  look  this  exile  wears  who's  wont  to  be  so 
gay.     Captain  O'Donnell,  what  is  it  ?" 
20* 


if  •  1 

m'-.<k\ 


.1 1 


':i. 


466 


*'S/X    YEARS   TOO  LATEy 


The  (Ink  gravity  of  liis  face  broke  intd  an  answering  smile, 
si  ill  a  gra\-c  one. 

"  'The  treasured  wrongs  of  six  years  back  are  in  my  heart 
to-day.'  Lady  Cecil,  my  sister  and  your  father  have  told  me 
all.  To-morrow  1  leave  Scarswood,  the  day  after  Castleford, 
in  all  likelihood  forever,  liefore  1  go  let  me  present  my  con- 
gratulations to  the  future  Lady  Cecil  'I'regenna." 

Slie  turned  suddenly  away  iVom  him,  her  head  drooped,  a 
deep,  painful,  burning  flush  rose  up  to  the  very  roots  of  her 
hair.  As  she  sang  the  old  song,  as  he  stood  l)eside  her  in  the 
old  way,  the  old,  glad  days  had  come  back,  the  golden  days 
of  her  first  youth.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  and  the  present  had 
faded  for  a  moment  as  a  dream,  and  Torryglen  and  her  love, 
the  onl)'  love  she  had  ever  known,  had  come  back.  And  the 
spell  was  broken — thus. 

She  could  not  speak ;  the  keenest  pain,  the  siiarjiest  pang 
she  had  ever  felt  cauiiht  at  her  heart  like  a  hand.     For  that  fust 

o 

instant  even  her  pride  forsook  her. 

"  And  I  can  congratulate  you,"  the  grave,  deep  tones  of  the 
soldier  of  fortune  went  on.  "  No  truer  gentleman,  no  more 
loyal  frieinl  exists,  nor,  in  the  futnre,  I  believe  no  more  devoted 
husband  than  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna." 

'•Late — Miss  Herncastle's  slave  and  worshiper  !  Pray  add 
that  before  you  finish  your  panegyric,  Captain  O'Donnell." 

She  hated  herself  for  the  passionate  words  the  moment  they 
were  spoken,  for  the  bitterness  of  the  tone,  for  the  intolerable 
pain  and  ji.alousy  that  forced  them  from  her.  It  was  shameful 
cnougli,  bitter  enough,  humiliating  enough,  surely,  to  know  that 
she  loved  this  man,  as  she  never  would  love  the  man  she  was 
to  marry — bad  enough  without  being  forced  to  listen  to  praises 
of  her  betrothed  from  him.  A  deep,  angry  red  had  risen  in 
either  pearly  cheek,  a  deep,  angry  tlame  burned  in  cithei  eye. 
Hii  calm,  friendly  indifference,  the  cool  gravity  of  his  look  and 
tone  were  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"Ivliss  llerncaslle's  slave,"  he  lepeated  :  "no,  Lady  Cecil  ; 
never  quite  that,  1  think.  Her  admirer,  ]ierhaps,  if  you  like. 
Miss  Herncastle  hapi^ens  to  be  one  of  those  remarkable  women 
whonj  almost  all  men  admire." 

"  We  won't  split  hairs  over  it.  Sir  Arthur  is,  as  you  say,  an 
honorable  gentleman  ;  to  that  high  -Mise  of  honor,  no  doubt,  1 
am  indebted  for  my  present  felicit) .  If  lie  were  free  to  choose, 
I  fear  you  would  hardly  back  my  ch;  ccs  to  win  against  tliose 
of  l-ady  Dangerficld's  late  governess.     I    thank  you  for  }oui 


^^•nwiwuiriiAivi 


**S/X    YEARS    TOO  LATE:' 


ring  smile, 

1  my  heart 

c  told  me 

'ustleford, 

It  my  con- 

;]iooi)c(l,  a 
lis  of  her 
her  in  the 
'Men  days 
esent  h:id 
her  love, 
And  the 

I] 'est  pang 
>r  that  fust 

nes  of  the 
,  no  more 
re  devoted 

Pray  add 

mell." 
nent  they 
ntolerable 
>  shameful 
know  tliat 
n  she  was 
to  praises 
■d  risen  in 
it  her  eye. 
look  and 

dy  Cecil ; 
you  like, 
le  women 

»u  say,  an 
•  doubt,  1 
o  choose, 
nst  those 
for  you  I 


467 


congratukitions  all  the  same,  and  accept  them  for  exactly  what 
th<-y  are  worth." 

She  made  a  motion  as  though  to  end  the  subject,  but  the 
chasseur,  still  leaning  against  the  piano,  had  no  present  idea  of 
ending  it. 

"  Miss  Ilerncastle,"  he  resumed  coolly,  **  is,  as  T  have  often 
said  before,  a  very  extraordinary  woman,  and  to  be  judged  by 
no  ordinary  rules.  Without  any  jjretension  to  personal  beauty, 
be)  ond  a  stately  figure,  a  graceful  walk,  and  a  low  sweet  voice 
--that  '  most  excellent  thing  in  woman  ' — she  will  yet  fascinate 
■where  a  merely  beautiful  woman  may  fail.  She  is  one  of  those 
sorceresses  whose  fatal  spell  of  fascination  few  may  encounter 
and  escape." 

"And  Captain  O'DonncIl  is  one  of  those  fortunate  few. 
]jut  then,  if  Miss  Herncastle  hi  an  extraordinary  woman. 
Captain  O'Donnell  is  a  still  more  extraordinary  man — extra- 
ordmary  ft)r  his  hardness,  and  coldness,  and  impenetrability  if 
for  nothing  else.  The  spell  of  the  enchantress  has  at  least 
been  powerless  for  //////." 

"Quite  right.  Lady  Cecil.  It  has  been  powerless,  perhaps, 
as  you  say,  because  I  am  naturally  flinty,  or  because  I  have 
lain  for  years  under  another  spell  equally  fatal,  and  the  one 
has  counteracted  the  other." 

She  laughed  satirically,  and  began  playing  a  waltz. 

"  The  beau  chasseur  under  a  spell  I  Imjiossible  to  imagine 
such  a  thing.  Who  is  the  sorceress?  Some  Diamond  of  the 
Deseit? — some  Pearl  of  the  Plains? — some  lovely  Araby's 
daughter?     WhoV 

"Shall  I  really  tell  you,  I.ady  Cecil?" 

"Just  as  you  please,"  the  white  hands  still  played  nimbly  on. 
"Perhaps  you  had  better  not,  though.  Love  stories  are  a 
trite  subject — so  old,  so  stupidly  commonplace — they  l)ore 
me  to  death,  either  in  books  or  real  life.  And  1  don't  think  it 
is  in  your  nature  to  have  the  disease  very  badly.  I  )iO])e  you 
aiiuiiie  my  waltz — it  is  of  my  own  composing.  I  call  it  the 
Rose  Waltz,  and  dedicate  it  to  Miss  Rose  O'Donnell." 

"  1  like  it,  but  I  liked  the  song  I  heard  you  singing  as  I  came 
in  better — my  song,  Lady  Cecil.  Do  you  remember  the  last 
lime  I  sang  it  standing  beside  you  in  the  little  jjarlor  at  Torry- 
glen,  as  I  stand  now?  You  playing,  and  your  father  asleep  in 
his  arm-chair — or  was  he  only  pretending  .sleep,  and  watch- 
ing-us?  The  last  time.  Lady  Cecil,  though  I  did  not  know 
it." 


463 


''SIX  YEARS   TOO  LATE.'' 


She  mvide  no  reply.  SIic  still  played  on  the  Rose  Waltz,  but 
she  struck  the  chords  at  raudoui. 

"  I  leiucuibcr  it  so  well.  You  were  dressed  in  while  as)ou 
are  now.  White  is  your  fitting  color,  I.ady  C'ecil.  You  had 
wild  roses  in  your  hair,  and  we  sang  togeihiT  all  evening,  and 
scarcely  spoke  a  word.  You  have  clianged  since  then — grown 
t.ilk-j-,  more  womanly  ;  more  beautiful,  and  )et — will  you  be 
off.Midcd  !  I  think  1  liked  the  'Queenie'  of  Torryglen  better 
than  the  La  Reinc  Blanche  of  Scarswood." 

"Captain  O'Donnell's  memory  is  good,"  she  answered,  as 
he  paused,  not  looking  at  him  ;  "better  than  1  ever  gave  him 
credit  for.  I  remember  the  evening  he  alludes  to  very  well — 
t!ie  last,  though  /  did  not  know  it  either.  And  will  he  be 
offjiuled  if  1  tell  him  1  liked  the  Redmond  ()'r>onnell  who  saved 
my  lifo,  who  sang  songs,  and  who  was  neither  blas'c  nor  cynical, 
nnich  better  than  the  dashing  Chasseur  d'Afriejue  of  six  years 
later?  I  fear  time  improves  neither  of  us;  I  have  grown 
worldiv,  you  a  cyni^  What  will  we  be  ten  years  hence,  I  won- 
der ?  "' 

"  1  think  I  can  answer.  You  will  be  Lady  Cecil  Trcgenna, 
the  fairest,  the  loveliest,  the  gentlest  of  I'lngland's  stately 
matrons,  the  most  loving  of  wives,  the  niost  tender  of  friends — 
'  a  perfect  woman  nobly  planned.'  I  shall  be — well,  i)erhaps  a 
ColoMcl  of  Chasseurs,  the  highest  promotion  I  can  hope  for, 
wish  a  coujplexion  of  burnt  sienna — or — or  else  occupying  six 
feet  of  Alirerian  soil.  In  either  event  I  am  most  unlikelv  ever 
to  meet  )v;//  again  ;  and  so  to-night,  before  we  say  our  final  fare- 
well, 1  think,  in  spite  of  your  dislike  to  love  stories,  1  must  tell 
)'ou  one.  Not  my  own  ;  you  think  me  too  hard  for  any  such 
tenderness,  and  perhaps  you  are  right.  Let  us  say  a  friend  of 
mine — an  Irishman  too — now  an  Algerian  soldier  like  my.self. 
Will  it  bore  you  very  much  to  listen,  Lady  Cecil?" 

"  Co  on,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"  It  was — well,  a  number  of  years  ago — when  my  friend  w.as 
little  better  than  a  hobbledehoy  of  two-or-three-and-twenty,  with 
a  head  full  of  romance  and  chivalry,  an  inilammable  heart, 
and  an  empty  purse.  He  had  a  long  lineage,  an  old  name,  a 
ruined  homestead,  a  suit  of  peasant's  clothes,  and  nothing  else, 
lie  lived  alone — a  dreamer's  life,  full  of  vague,  s[)lendid  hopes 
for  the  future,  and  troubled  with  very  little  of  that  useful  com- 
modity— common-sense. 

"  C/iie  stormy  autumn  evening  the  romance  of  his  life  began. 
An  ICnglish  peer  and  his  only  daughter  came  to  his  neighbor- 


[V'altz,  but 

[ite  as  you 
You   had 

■nin^S  and 
111 — grown 
(II  you  be 
}ci\  bettor 

^  we  red,  a«? 

gave  liiiii 

■ry  well — 
vill  lie  be 
who  saved 

)f  cynical, 

six  years 

ive  grown 

ice,  I  won- 

rrcgenna, 
I's  stately 
f  friends — • 

perhaps  a 
1  hope  for, 
upying  six 
likely  ever 

final  fare- 
I  must  tell 
r  any  such 
a  friend  of 
ke  myself. 


friend  was 
enty,  with 
ble  heart, 
1  name,  a 
hing  else, 
did  hopes 
ieful  coni- 


ifel 


)egan. 


ncighbor- 


'*S/X    YEARS   TOO  LATE»  465 

hood  to  reside  for  a  time,  and  it  chanced  that  his  good  fortune 
enabled  hiin  to  do  the  peer's  daughter  a  service.  They  were 
v'ery  gracious,  very  grateful,  and  showed  it  in  many  kindly  ways. 
They  overlooked  the  peasant's  dress,  the  stupid  l)ashl"ulness  of 
my  young  friend,  and  invited  him  to  their  house,  to  their  table 
— he  became  the  iMiglish  girl's  daily  companion  and  friend. 
And  his  brain  was  turned.  I  told  you  he  was  a  dreamer — he 
knew  nothing  of  the  world  and  its  codes,  was  destitute  of 
conimon-sense,  and  he  Hdl  madly  in  love  with  the  earl's  daugh- 
ter, 1  shall  not  tell  you  how  lovely  she  was  at  sixteen — one 
lady  they  say  does  not  care  to  hear  another  praised.  In  those 
days  1 — my  friend,  I  mean — was  poetic,  and  two  lines  from  one 
of  his  poets  describes  her  : 

•  A  lovely  bcini;,  scarcely  formefl  or  molded, 
A  rose  with  all  ils  swcclcsl  leaves  yet  tuldcd.' 

•  A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded,'  a  pretty  idea  and 
a  collect  one.  He  fell  in  love  with  her — I  have  said  she  was 
sweet  and  gracious,  gentle  and  kind — as  a  fair  young  ([ueen 
might  be  to  a  peasant  who  had  done  her  a  service — too  great 
not  to  be  grateful.  And  he — he  was  a  fool — he  mistook  it — ■ 
mistook  her."  ^Vill  you  believe  it.  Lady  Cecil,  when  I  tell 
you  this  enthusiastic  young  Irish  idiot  believed  his  passion  re- 
turned, and  actually  deemed  that  for  love  of  a  raw  mountain 
lad,  without  a  farthing  in  his  purse,  she  would  wait  until  he  had 
won  name,  and  fame,  and  fortune,  and  become  his  wife.  He 
siiiiles  and  wonders  at  his  own  inconceivable  imbecility  when 
he  thinks  of  it  now. 

"  1  have  one  thing  to  say  in  his  favor — he  didn't  tell  her. 
"Wiien  this  foolish  passion  of  his  grew  too  great  for  one  heart  to 
bear,  he  went  to  her  father  and  made  his  confession  to  him.  I 
can  imagine  how  this  worldly  wise  peer — this  ambitious  ICnglish 
nobleman,  laughed  in  his  sleeve  as  he  listened — it  wasn't  worth 
growing  serious  over,  and  in  his  way  he  rather  liked  the  lad. 
He  was  wise  enough  not  to  laugh  aloud  however — if  the  young 
Irishman  had  been  a  duke  he  could  not  have  entertained  his 
mad  proposal  with  more  gravity  and  courtesy.  His  daughter 
had  been  engaged  from  her  fo  irteenlh  year  to  a  Cornish  baronet 
of  fabulous  wealth,  and  was  to  marry  him  in  a  year  or  two  at 
the  most.  Was  it  possible  she  had  not  told  him  ?  No,  that 
was  strange,  certainly.  However,  her  father  could  speak  to 
her— if  hor  heart  inclined  her  to  Irish  love  in  a  cottage  instead 
ol  Cornish  splendor,  why — far  be  it  from  him  to  go  between 


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**SIX   YEARS   TOO  LATE:* 


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'  two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought,  two  hearts  that  beat  as 
one,'  etc.  He  was  to  go  tc-night — to  come  to-morrow  and  re- 
ceive his  answer  from  herself.  Only,  in  the  meantime — this  last 
evening,  he  was  not  to  broach  directly,  or  indirectly,  the  ten- 
der subject  to  her,  and  to-morrow  he  was  religiously  to  absent 
himself  from  their  cottage  all  day.  In  short,  the  English  peer 
dealt  with  a  fool  according  to  his  folly. 

"  My  friend  has  toid  me,  as  we  lay  and  smoked.  Lady  Cecil, 
with  the  stars  of  Africa  shining  on  our  bivouac — that  that 
evening  stands  out  distinct  from  all  other  evenings  in  his  life, 
and  will,  until  his  dying  day.  Every  detail  of  the  picture — the 
quiet,  wax-lit  room — the  earl  feigning  sleep,  the  better  to  watch 
them,  in  his  chair — the  candles  burning  on  the  piano  and  il- 
luminating her  fair  Madonna  face — the  cold,  autumnal  moon- 
light sleeping  on  the  brown  banks  of  heather  without — the  white 
dress  she  wore — the  roses  in  her  hair,  gathered  by  /lis  hand — 
the  songs  she  sang — the  sweet,  tremulous,  tender  light  all  over 
the  lovely  face.  It  will  remai  i  with  him — haunt  him  until  his 
heart  ceases  to  beat.  They  have  met  since  then,  but  never 
again  like  that — young,  fresh,  trusting,  and  unspotted  from  the 
world. 

"  Next  day  came.  They  had  parted  without  a  word — he 
had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  at  daybreak  had  ridden  away 
— true  to  his  promise  in  spirit  as  in  letter.  Evening  came  and 
brought  him — for  the  answer  he  hoped,  he  believed  would  be 
yes.  He  had  worked  himself  up  into  a  fever  of  loving  and 
longing,  he  flew  down  the  valley  to  the  casket  that  held  his 
pearl  of  price.  What  do  you  think  he  found  ?  A  deserted 
house — an  empty  cage — the  birds  flown.  Two  notes  were 
]ilaced  in  his  hand  by  a  servant,  who  sneered  at  him  as  he  gave 
them — two  brief,  cold,  hard  notes  of  farewell — that  struck  him 
more  brutally  than  blows — one  from  her,  one  from  her  father. 
It  was  the  old  hackneyed,  stereotyped  form — she  was  sorry — 
did  not  dream  that  he  cared  for  her — was  engaged  to  another 
— it  was  better  she  should  go,  and  she  was  always  his  friend, 
et  cetera.  It  was  written  in  her  handwriting  and  signed  with 
her  name — her  father's  indorsed  it. 

"  Ti  was  only  what  he  richly  deserved — you  and  I  can  see 
that — for  his  presumption,  his  madness — the  only  answer  that 
cou/d  be  given  ;  but  Lady  Cecil,  men  have  gone  mad  or  died 
for  less.  In  one  night — from  an  enthusiastic  boy — trusting  all 
men — he  became  what  you  call  me — a  hard,  cold  skeptic,  with 
no  trust  in  man,  no  faith  in  woman,  a  cynic  and  a  scofter  in  a 


■ 


\  '^. ' 


**SIX   YEARS   TOO  LATEr 


471 


that  beat  as 
row  and  re- 
>e — this  last 
ly>  the  ten- 
y  to  absent 
"ghsh  peer 

ady  Cecil, 
—that  that 

in  his  h'fe, 
icture— the 
er  to  watch 
iano  and  il- 
mal  moon- 
— the  white 
his  hand — 
jht  all  over 
m  until  his 
but  nev'er 
d  from  the 

word — he 
dden  away 
\  canie  and 
1  would  be 
oving  and 
t  held  his 
L  deserted 
otes  were 
IS  he  gave 
truck  him 
ler  father. 
,s  sorry — 
3  another 
lis  friend, 
filed  with 

can  see 
>wer  that 
\  or  died 
isting  all 
>tic,  with 
>ft'er  in  a 


night.  He  learnt  his  lesson  well ;  years  have  gone,  they  have 
cured  him  of  his  folly,  but  it  is  a  folly  that  has  never  been  re- 
peated, and  never  will  to  his  dying  day.  Only — when  they 
meet  in  after  days,  do  you  think  she  of  all  the  women  on  earth 
should  be  the  tirst  to  reproach  him  with  his  hardness,  his  cold- 
ness, his  unbelief?  She  taught  him  his  lesson — should  she  find 
fault  if  he  is  an  apt  pupil  ?  " 

He  paused.  His  voice  had  not  risen — in  the  low,  grave  tone 
she  knew  so  well,  he  had  told  his  story  ;  an  undertone  of  sad- 
ness and  cynicism  running  through  all.  There  was  a  half  smile 
on  his  face  as  he  looked  at  her  and  waited  for  his  answer. 

She  started  to  hei  feet — the  angry  flush  had  long  since  left 
her  face — she  stood  before  him,  pale  to  the  lips — her  brown 
eyes  met  his  full. 

"  Captain  O'Donnell,  what  story  is  this?     Is  it — is  it — " 

"  My  own,  Lady  Cecil !  Yes  ;  you  hardly  need  ask  the  ques- 
tion, I  think." 

"  Need  I  not  ?  Yours  !  And  what  letter  is  this  you  talk  of, 
written  by  my  hand  and  signed  with  my  name.  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"You  don't  understand.  A  few  mmutes  ago  you  accused 
me  of  a  defective  memory.  But  I  suppose  a  matter  of  such 
trifling  import  could  not  be  expected  to  remain  in  your  mem- 
ory. I  mean  the  letter  you  wrote  me,  rejecting  my  presump- 
tuous suit — telling  me  of  your  engagement  to  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genna,  the  night  before  you  left  Torryglen." 

"  I  never  wrote  any  such  letter." 

''Lady  Cecil!" 

"  I  never  wrote  any  such — " 

She  paused  suddenly.  Over  her  face  there  rose  a  flush,  her 
hands  clasped  together — she  looked  at  him,  a  sudden  light 
breaking  upon  her. 

"  The  note  pajja  dictated,  and  which  he  made  me  write," 
she  said  in  a  sort  of  whisper.     *'  Redmond,  I  see  it  all ! " 

The  old  name,  the  thrill  his  heart  gave  as  he  heard  it.  In 
the  days  that  were  gone  it  had  been  "Redmond"  and 
"Qiieenie"  always. 

■"  It  is  my  turn  not  to  understand.  Will  you  explain,  Lady 
Cecil?  I  certainly  read  the  note,  written  and  signed  by 
you." 

"  I  know,  I  know."  She  sank  back  into  her  seat  and  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  hand.  "  I  see  all  now.  Papa  deceived  us 
both." 


472 


**SIX   YEARS   TOO  LATE" 


In  a  broken  voice,  in  brief  words,  she  told  him  the  story  of 
that  note. 

"  Papa  told  me  nothing — nothing.  I  did  not  know,  I  never 
dreamed  it  was  for  you.  And  he  hurried  me  away  without  a 
word  of  explanation  or  warning.  I  see  it  all  now.  And  the 
hard  things  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  all  these  years,  the 
hard  things  you  must  have  thought  of  me  /  You  who  saved 
jny  life,  Captain  O'Donnell,"  with  sudden  passion,  "what  must 
you  have  thought  of  me  ?  " 

lie  smiled  again. 

"  Very  bitter  things  in  the  past,  Queenie — in  the  long  past. 
Of  late  years,  as  I  grew  in  wisdom  and  in  grace,  I  began  to  see 
your  father  acted  as  most  fathers  would  have  acted,  and  acted 
right.  I  don't  mean  to  defend  the  duplicity  of  part  of  it,  but 
at  least  he  avoided  a  scene — no  inconsiderable  gain.  All  the 
wisdom  of  a  Solomon  and  all  the  eloquence  of  a  Demosthenes 
could  not  have  made  me  see  my  folly  in  the  proper  light — the 
utter  impossibility  of  my  being  ever  any  other  than  friend  to 
Lord  Ruysland's  daughter.  1  would  have  persisted  in  falling  at 
your  feet,  in  pouring  forth  the  tale  of  my  madness,  and  succeed- 
ing in  distressing  you  beyond  measure.  Your  father  foresaw 
all  that,  and  forestalled  it — he  could  scarcely  have  acted  other- 
wise than  as  he  did." 

"  And  Captain  O'Donnell,  who  might  have  been  taken  at 
his  word  by  a  girl  of  sixteen,  as  silly  as  himself,  is  only  too 
thankful  for  his  hair-breadth  escape.  I  understand,  sir-— you 
don't  know  what  good  reason  you  have  to  thank  Lord  Ruys- 
land's common-sense.  I  only  wonder  the  matter  having  ended 
so  well — for  you — you  cave  to  allude  to  the  subject  at  all." 

"  Only  too  thankful  for  my  hair-breadth  escape  ! "  he  repeated. 
•'  Queenie,  if  I  had  spoken — if  you  had  known  !" 

"  r.ut  you  did  not,"  she  interrupted,  coldly,  ".so  we  will  not 
discuss  the  question.  You  have  escaped,  that  is  enough  for 
you.  I  am  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna's  affianced  wife,  that  is 
enough  for  me.     I  ask  again,  why  have  you  spoken  at  all  ?  " 

"  Because  I  could  not — hard,  cold,  inmovable  as  you  think  me 
— 1  could  not  part  with  you  again — this  time  forever— without 
knowing  whether  or  no  you  really  wrote  my  death-warrant  six 
years  ago.  It  was  so  unlike  you — it  has  rankled  so  bitterly  all 
those  years,  and  of  late  the  truth  began  to  dawn  upon  me. 
Perliai)s  because  the  old,  sweet  madness  has  never  left  me  ;  and 
when  we  have  parted — when  you  are  a  hapi)y  wife  and  I  am 
back  in  Algiers — the  happiness  of  knowing  Queenie  was  all  I 


wi  u 


**SIX   YEARS   TOO  LATE" 


the  story  of 

)\v,  I  never 
■  without  a 
And  the 
years,  the 
who  saved 
what  must 


■  long  i^ast. 
?gan  to  see 

and  acted 
t  of  it,  but 
1.  All  the 
mosthenes 

light— the 
I  friend  to 
in  falling  at 
d  succeed- 
er  foresaw 
:ted  other- 

1  taken  at 
s  only  too 
,  sir— )'ou 
^ord  Ruys- 
'ing  ended 
tall." 
repeated. 

'e  will  not 
nough  for 
',    that   is 
tall?" 
think  me 
—without 
arrant  six 
itterly  all 
ipon  me. 
me ;  and 
md  I  am 
vas  all  I 


473 


I 


tliought  her — my  little  love,  my  true  friend,  and  not  even  at  six- 
teen a  coquette,  a  trifler  with  men's  hearts — will  repay  me  foi 
all  I  have  lost." 

He  stopped  abruptly.  She  had  covered  her  face  with  both 
hands,  and  he  could  see  the  tears  that  fell  thick  and  fast. 

''  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  is  my  friend,"  he  said,  his  own  voice 
broken.  "  Heaven  knows  I  have  no  wish  to  say  one  word  he 
may  not  hear,  but,  Queenie,  I  must  speak  tonight  for  the  first 
— the  last  time.  I  have  loved  you — I  do  love  you — I  will  love 
you  while  life  lasts.  If  fate  had  willed  it  otherwise — if  rank 
and  fortune  had  been  mine  years  ago,  they  would  have  been 
laid  nt  your  feet,  where  my  heart  has  been  all  these  years, 
i' rce  or  plighted,  I  know  well  how  utterly,  wildly  impossible  it 
v.oiikl  be  for  you  to  listen  to  me.  It  may  be  a  dastardly  deed 
to  speak  at  all,  but  I  must.  You  pity  me,  at  least.  Ah  ! 
Queenie,  I  would  not  have  the  past  changed,  with  all  its  suffer- 
ing, its  loss,  its  misery,  if  1  could.  The  thought  of  you  is  the 
sweetest  thought  of  my  life.  If  I  have  distressed  you  by 
s[)eaking,  I  am  sorry.  Forgive  me,  Queenie,  for  this  and  all 
the  rest." 

Forgive !  He  asked  no  more.  And  in  that  instant,  if  he 
had  said,  "  Come,"  she  would  have  left  rank  and  wealth,  father 
and  friends,  and  gone  with  him  to  beggary.  But  not  for  the 
crown  of  the  world  would  he  have  said  it.  He  loved  her — but 
honor  more. 

"  Let  this  be  our  farewell,"  he  said,  gently ;  "  let  our  real 
parting  be  now.  When  we  say  it  again  it  will  be  before  the 
world.  We  will  both  be  the  happier,  I  hope,  for  understanding 
each  other  at  last ;  you  will  think  me  no  more  a  cynic  and  a 
scoffer — I  will  know  you  no  more  for  a  heartless  coquette. 
Good-by,  Queenie ;  may  God  bless  you  and  make  you 
happy  ! " 

He  held  out  his  hand  ;  she  laid  hers  in  it — the  other  hid  her 
face.  "Their  hands  clasped  and  the  spirit  kissed."  "  Good- 
by  !  "  she  heard  him  say  again,  holding  her  hand  hard.  Then 
he  let  it  go,  walked  to  the  door,  looked  back  once  at  the 
drooping  figure,  and  was  gone. 


474 


A    CHAPTER  OF   WONDERS. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


A  CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


I 


fl 


! 


i 


S  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room  he  en- 
countered Soames,  the  tall  footman. 

"My  lord's  compliments,  Captain  O'Donnell,"  Mr. 
Soames  said,  bowing.     "  His  lordship's  in  the  library, 
captain,  and  requests  you  to  wait  upon  him  there." 

O'Donnell  nodded  and  walked  forward  to  the  library — his 
dc^rk  somber  face  betraying  no  more  what  had  just  passed  than 
a  handsome  mask  of  bronze. 

"Come  in,  O'Donnell,"  the  earl  said,  in  answer  to  his  tap, 
and  the  chasseur  entered  the  library,  closed  the  door,  and  threw 
himself  into  a  seat. 

His  lordship  was  alone — the  lamps  burned  brightly,  but  even 
in  their  brilliance  shadows  lurked  in  the  corners  of  the  long, 
stately  room.  The  curtains  were  drawn  over  the  open  windows, 
shutting  out  the  dark,  sultry  summer  night.  On  a  table  at  the 
earl's  elbow,  wine-glasses  and  cigars  stood. 

"  I  suppose  you're  nearly  out  of  patience  by  this  time,"  his 
lordship  began,  "  but  Davis's  report  was  unusually  lengthy  and 
interesting  this  evening  ;  Davis's  incHnation  for  port  wine  was 
even  more  marked  than  usual.  The  lower  orders,  as  a  rule,  if 
you  observe,  have  a  weakness  for  port  wine,  the  thicker  and 
sweeter  the  better.  Davis  is  a  clever  fellow,  and  a  skilled  de- 
tective, but  no  exception  to  this  rule.  O'Donnell,"  he  leaned 
forward  and  asked  the  question  with  most  startling  abruptness, 
"  what  do  you  know  of  Miss  Herncastle  ?  " 

But  the  sangfroid  of  O'Donnell  was  equal  to  his  own — if  he 
thought  to  throw  him  off  his  guard  and  read  the  truth  in  his 
confusion,  he  was  mistaken.  Captain  O'Donnell,  lying  at  full 
length  back  in  his  chair,  pulling  his  long  trooper  mustache, 
looked  across  at  him  ;  the  conscious  calm  of  innocence  in  his 
surprised  blue  eyes. 

"  What  do  I  know  of  Miss  Herncastle  ?  Well,  not  a  great 
deal,  perhaps,  but  enough  to  convince  me  she  is  a  very  fine 
woman,  a  remarkably  fine  woman,  indeed,  both  mentally  and 
l)hysically.  A  little  too  clever,  perhaps,  as  Lady  Dangerfield 
scenes  to  have  found  out  to  her  cost." 

"  You  won't  tell  me  then.  Very  well,  Davis  and  I  must  find 
out  for  ourselves.     Only  it  would  simplify  matters  if  you  would, 


A    CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


475 


-room  he  en- 

Dnnell,"  Mr. 
tlie  library, 

library— his 
passed  than 

r  to  his  tap, 
»r,  and  threw 

tly,  but  even 
3f  the  Jong, 
en  windows, 
table  at  the 

's  time,"  his 
lengthy  and 
ft  wine  was 
as  a  rule,  if 
thicker  and 
skilled  de- 
he  leaned 
abruptness, 

own — if  he 
ruth  in  his 
'ing  at  full 
nnistache, 
;nce  in  his 

ot  a  great 
L  very  fine 
ntally  and 
angerfield 

must  find 
ou  would, 


\ 


and  I  don't  see  why  you  should  league  yourself  under  Miss 
Herncastle's  piratical  black  flag." 

"  Will  your  lordship  think  me  very  stupid  if  I  say  I  really 
don't  understand  ?" 

"  I  would  if  I  thought  so,  but  I  don't.  O'Donnell,  it's  of  no 
use  your  fencing  me  with  the  buttons  on.  You  know  more  of 
Miss  Hcrncastle  than  you  choose  to  tell — 1  believe  ydu  met 
her  before  you  met  her  here — in  Algiers  or  in  America.  A 
man  doesn't  take  midnight  rambles,  as  a  rule,  with  a  lady  who 
is  a  perfect  stranger  to  him.  Oh  don't  wear  that  unconscious 
look — it  doesn't  deceive  me.  I  tell  you  I  saw  you  escorting 
Miss  Herncastle  across  the  fields  to  this  house  between  one 
and  two  in  the  morning." 

"  The  deuce  you  did  !  And  how  came  Lord  Ruysland  to  be, 
like  sister  Anne,  on  the  watch  tower  between  one  and  two  in 
the  morning?" 

"  1  was  in  my  room.  Have  I  told  you  before,  I  can  never 
sleej)  well  on  bright  moonlight  nights.  I  was  sitting  at  my 
open  bedroom  window.  I  saw  you,  sir.  I  even  heard  you.  I 
heard  you  both." 

"  You  did  ?     May  I  ask—" 

"  I  heard  her  ask  you  as  you  stopped  if  it  were  to  be  war  to 
the  knife  between  you,  or  words  to  that  effect.  You  answered 
it  should  be  as  Miss  Herncastle  pleased.  You  left  her  as  she 
stood,  and  she  watched  you  out  of  sight  almost — by  gad  !  as  if 
you  had  been  her  lover.  And  yet  I  hardly  think  you  ever  were 
that." 

'*  Hardly.  I  played  the  lover  once  in  my  life,  and  received 
a  lesson  I  am  not  likely  to  forget.  Who  should  know  that  bet- 
ter than  your  lordship  ?  " 

His  lordship  winced.  O'Donnell  calmly  took  up  a  cigar 
and  lit  it. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  smoke  while  I  listen.  Nothing  clears  a 
man's  intellect  after  dinner  like  a  prime  Manilla.  Will  your 
lordshij)  go  on — you  look  as  though  you  may  have  seen  some- 
thing more." 

"  1  have.  I  saw  Miss  Herncastle  steal  from  her  room  the 
following  night,  waylay  Sir  Peter  and  play  ghost.  Come, 
O'Donnell,  1  am  possessed  of  a  burning  curiosity  concerning 
Miss  Herncastle — make  a  clean  breast  of  it — and  tell  me  what 
you  know." 

"  I  can  tell  you  all  about  the  moonlight  night  you  speak  of, 
if  that  is  what  you  mean.     I  remained  later  than  usual  at  Scars- 


r  ■ ' 


I  I 


1    I 


•I '  I 


1 1  i  t 


1 1 


il     r 

ii  \ 


ii  1 


476 


A    CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


wood,  and  going  home  I  saw  Miss  Herncastle  taking  a  moon- 
light ramble,  and  i^resuming  on  my  previous  introduction,  took 
the  liberty  of  joining  her.  The  moonlight  may  have  affected 
her  nerves  as  well  as  your  lordship's  ;  midnight  constitutionals- 
may  agree  with  her,  or  she  may  have  been  paying  a  visit — this 
at  least  is  certain,  our  meeting  was  purely  accidental,  and  never 
occurred  before  nor  since." 

"And  the  mysterious  words  I  heard  under  my  window? 
Keep  your  secret  and  hers,  if  you  will,  but  I  warn  you  fairly  I 
vv'ill  iind  out  for  myself.  Would  you  like  to  hear  what  I  have 
discovered  already  ?  " 

O'Donnell  nodded  in  smoky  silence — more  interested  than 
he  cared  to  show.     Had  his  lordship  discovered  the  truth  ? 

"Well,"  LordRuysland  said,  "from  the  night  I  saw  her  with 
you,' and  the  night  I  saw  her  play  ghost,  my  mind  was  made  up. 
1  had  distrusted  her  from  the  very  first — now  I  knew  she  was 
a  dangerous  woman.  I  wrote  a  letter  on  the  quiet  to  a  friend 
in  London  ;  my  friend  in  London,  still  on  the  quiet,  paid  a  visit 
to  Scotland  Yard,  and  sent  down  Davis,  a  dingy  little  man  in 
rusty  black,  with  weak  eyes  and  a  meek  air,  like  a  parson  run 
to  seed.  He  arrived  on  the  very  day  of  the  grand  denoue- 
ment— the  day  upon  which  Miss  Herncastle  was  expelled  from 
Scarswood.  She  had  no  friends  or  acquaintances  in  Castle- 
ford  ;  she  had  announced  her  intention  of  returning  to  London. 
Davis  and  myself  were  on  the  platform  when  she  appeared — a 
signal  from  me  told  him  she  was  our  game.  From  that  mo- 
ment she  was  safe  :  my  share  in  the  business  was  over.  She 
took  a  second-class  ticket  for  London — so  did  Davis.  It  was 
a  Parliamentary,  with  no  end  of  stoppages.  What  do  you  think 
Miss  Herncastle  did  ?  Instead  of  going  to  London  she  got  out 
at  Treverton  Station,  nine  miles  distant,  and  dehberately  walked 
back  in  this  direction  as  far  as  the  town  of  I^ewes.  It  was  quite 
dark  when  she  reached  Lewes,  Davis  still  unseen  on  her  track. 
She  went  to  a  remote  Uttle  inn  in  the  suburbs  of  the  town  called 
'The  Prince's  Feathers,' and  remained  there  all  night.  She 
gave  no  name,  and  wore  a  thick  green  veil  over  her  face. 
Davis  stopped  at  'The  Prince's  Feathers'  all  night  also.  She 
remained  in  her  room  the  whole  of  the  ensuing  day — it  was 
nine  o'clock  before  she  ventured  forth  ;  and  when  she  did  vent- 
ure out,  still  veiled,  where  do  you  think  she  went  to  ?  Have 
you  ever  heard  of  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 

Again  O'Donnell  nodded. 

"  Bracken  Hollow  is  over  three  miles  from  this,  and  four 


A   CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


477 


king  a  moon- 
liiction,  took 
lave  affected 
onstitutionals 
a  visit — this 
al,  and  never 

ny  window? 
you  fairly  I 
wliat  I  have 

crested  than 
le  truth  ? 
saw  her  with 
I'as  made  up. 
new  she  was 
it  to  a  friend 
\  paid  a  visit 
little  man  in 
1  parson  run 
p.nd  denoue- 
xpelled  from 
2S  in  Castle- 
5  to  London, 
appeared — a 
om  that  mo- 
'  over.     She 
vis.     It  was 
3o  you  think 
I  she  got  out 
itely  walked 
It  was  quite 
n  her  track, 
town  called 
night.     She 
•r  her  face. 
t  also.     She 
lay — it  was 
le  did  vent- 
to  ?     Have 


>,  and  four 


from  I, ewes,  a  tolerable  walk,  as  poor  Davis  found  to  his  cost. 
It  was  a  nasty  dri/zly  night,  the  roads  muddy,  the  darkness  in- 
tense, but  Miss  Herncastle  went  over  the  way  as  though  she 
knew  every  inch  of  it,  Davis  dogged  her — saw  her  within  the 
gate  of  liracken  Hollow,  saw  her  knock  at  the  door,  saw  her 
admitted  by  an  old  woman,  and  saw  no  more  of  her  that  night. 

"lie  waited  until  daylight,  under  the  trees,  in  the  drizzling 
rain  ;  but  no  Miss  Herncastle  reappeared.  He  could  stand 
it  no  longer;  the  fear  of  rheumatism  was  stronger  even  than 
his  professional  patience.  He  returned  to  Castleford,  ate  his 
breakfast,  changed  his  clothes,  came  to  me,  and  told  me  his 
story.  When  I  fell  you  that  Bracken  Hollow  is  the  residence 
of  the  late  Miss  Katherine  Dangerfield's  nurse — when  you  re- 
call the  striking  resemblance  Miss  Herncastle  bears  to  the  late 
Miss  Dangerfield — the  coincidence,  you  will  own,  is  at  least 
striking.  The  question,  in  this  state  of  things,  naturally  pre- 
sents itself  to  an  inquiring  mind — Did  Miss  Katherine  Danger- 
field  really  die  at  all  ?  " 

"  Go  on,"  Captain  O'Donnell  said,  with  an  immovable  face. 

*'  It  i"^  a  question  that  has  occurred  to  me  many  times.  The 
resemblance — noticed  by  all  who  ever  saw  the  late  Sir  John's 
adopted  daughter — the  coincidence  of  age — if  Katherine 
Dangerfield  had  not  died  she  would  be  precisely  Miss  Hern- 
castle's  age  now — and,  lastly,  this  familiarity  with  Bracken  Hol- 
low and  Katherine  Dangerfield's  nurse.  The  grave  is  there  to 
be  sure ;  and  yet —  However,  never  mind  that  at  present.  Davis 
had  a  double  duty  to  perform — to  keep  one  eye  on  Sir  Peter 
while  the  other  was  on  the  ex-governess.  We  had  run  the  ex- 
governess  to  earth ;  we  might  leave  her  safely  at  Bracken 
Hollow  for  the  present,  and  watch  the  baronet's  movements. 
It  will  be  a  horrible  thing  for  Ginevra,  this  separation.  A 
woman  in  this  case  becomes  totally  extinct  for  life.  1  want  to 
arrange  matters  amicably  for  this  time,  and  I  fancy  it  will  be  a 
lesson  that  will  last  her  for  life.  I  had  sent  P'rankland  back  to 
town.  1  had  called  upon  Sir  Peter  at  the  Scarswood  Arms.  I 
found  him  sullen,  and  doggedly  obstinate  beyond  all  descrip- 
tion." 

"  '  I've  no  objection  to  seeing  your  lordship  for  once  in  a 
way,'  said  this  amiable  nephew-in-law  of  mine;  'but  if  you've 
come  to  talk  of  your  niece,  or  plead  for  her,  I  warn  you  it's  of 
no  use.' 

"  1  ventured  a  mild  remonstrance — '  the  natural  levity  of 
poor   Ginevra's   character — her  vanity — her  love  of  balls  in 


478 


A    CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


m  \ 


i  ^; 


general — the  deception  of  that  infamous  governess,'  etc.,  etc.   It 
was  all  eloquence  wasted. 

"  '  Women  of  thirty-five  shoukl  have  outgrown  their  natural 
levity,'  returns  my  sulky  baronet ;  *  and  her  vanity  and  love  of 
pleasure  have  made  a  fool  of  her  once  too  often.  I  told  her 
not  to  go,  and  she  went  ;  I  wained  her  of  the  penalty,  and  she 
defied  me.  I  don't  care  a  fig  whether  it  was  Miss  Herncastle 
or  Major  I'Yankland — she  thought  it  was  Frankland,  and  that's 
enough.  I'll  never  see  her  again — I'm  blessed  if  I  will  I 
I'll  have  a  separation — I'm  blessed  if  I  won't ! '  Only  the 
word  the  noble  baronet  used  was  not  '  blessed.'  Upon  that 
I  left  him  and  set  Davis  on  the  watch. 

"  He  spent  the  day  alone  ;  when  night  came  he  went  to 
Dubourg's  gambling  house.  Davis  entered,  too,  keeping  well 
ill  the  distance,  his  eye  on  Sir  Peter.  He  staked  and  lost, 
stak(,'d  and  lost,  again  and  again.  He  played  for  an  hour, 
losing  steadily.  In  a  state  of  savage  rage  he  was  rising  to  go, 
when  a  waiter  brought  him  a  card  with  a  line  or  two  penciled  on 
the  reverse  side.  He  looked  astounded,  Davis  says,  read  it 
again,  droi)ped  it,  and  went  forward  to  meet  a  stranger  who 
entered.  I'll  show  you  that  card  presently.  Davis  picked  it 
up  unnoticed,  and  I  think  it  will  surprise  even  you. 

"  The  new-comer  was  of  medium  height,  very  slender,  very 
dark,  with  hair  and  mustache  of  that  jetty  black  you  never  see 
in  an  P'nglishman.  He  was  a  stranger  to  Davis,  and  yet  some- 
thing struck  him  as  familiar.  Sir  Peter  put  up  his  double  eye- 
glass and  stared  in  a  helpless  sort  of  way.  *  What  the  devil 
drove  >w/  back  to  Castleford?'  he  heard  Sir  Peter  say  to  him, 
*  I  thought  you  were  dead  and  buried  centuries  ago.  And 
you've  changed,  haven't  you  ?  They  used  to  call  you  good- 
looking  ;  I'll  be.  hanged  if  I  can  see  it  now.'  The  stranger 
laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  '  Yes,  1  dare  say  I  have  changed,'  he  said,  *■  and  not  for  the 
better.  Six  years'  knocking  about  among  the  sweepings  of 
Europe,  and  living  by  one's  wits,  is  not  a  life  conducive  to  beauty. 
I'm  going  back  to  America,  and  it  struck  me  I  should  like  to 
run  clown  here  once  more  and  take  a  look  at  the  old  place. 
You  look  as  though  you  wondered  at  that ;  well,  perhaps  it  n 
to  he  wondered  at.  The  truth  is,'  he  took  Sir  Peter  by  the 
luLton  and  lowered  his  tone,  *  I  heard  something  of  this — this 
j^host  story,  you  know,  and  I  had  to  come.  Besides,  I  want  to 
find  out  Mrs.  Vavasor.  I  say,  Sir  Peter,  can't  we  have  a  private 
room,  and    talk   the    matter   over?     I  have  a  pocket  full  of 


A   CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


479 


,'  etc.,  etc.   It 

their  natural 
y  and  love  of 
I  told  her 
lalty,  and  tshe 
3s  Ilerncastle 
id,  and  that's 
d  if  I  will! 
Only  the 
Upon  that 

:  he  went   to 

keeping  well 
ced  and  lost, 

for  an  hour, 
3  rising  to  go, 
^o  penciled  on 

says,  read  it 
stranger  wlio 
avis  picked  it 
.1. 

slender,  very 
y^ou  never  see 
ind  yet  some- 
s  double  eye- 
'hat  the  devil 
jr  say  to  him, 
;s  ago.  And 
dl  you  good- 
The  stranger 

id  not  for  the 
sweepings  of 
ive  to  beauty, 
ihould  like  to 
lie  old  place, 
perhaps  it  u 
Peter  by  the 
of  this — this 
es,  I  want  to 
avea  private 
ocket  full  of 


Napoleons  here,  and  we  can  indulge  in  a  little  game  of  6cart6 
at  the  same  time.' 

"  The  baronet  was  touched  in  his  vital  spot — {"cartu.  They 
got  the  private  room  and  had  their  little  game.  They  played 
until  long  after  midnight ;  when  they  came  out,  the  baronet  was 
m  the  wild  state  of  elation  he  is  always  in  when  he  wins.  '  * 
Ihoiight  luck  would  turn,'  he  said  to  Dubourg,  v,hen  he  came 
out.  •  I've  won  sixty  Naps  of  this  gentleman,  and  mean  to  win 
us  many  more  to-morrow  night.  Don't  forget,  Djntree  ;  I'll 
give  you  your  revenge  to-morrow  evening  at  the  Scarswood 
Arms.' " 

"  Dantree  !  "  O'Donnell  exclaimed. 

"I  see  you  remember  the  name — Katherine  Dangerficld's 
rascally  lover.  Here's  the  card  Davis  picked  up  in  the  gambling 
house." 

O'Donnell  was  fully  aroused  now.  He  flung  his  cigar  away 
and  took  the  card.  On  one  side  was  engraved  the  name 
"  Gaston  Dantree,"  on  the  other  was  written  in  pencil : 

*'  Mv  Dear  Sir  Peter — I  musf  see  you  for  a  moment.  I 
have  heard  this  story  of  your  seeing  the  ghost  of  K.  D.  Per- 
haps I  can  throw  some  light  on  the  subject.  G.  D." 

"This  is  extraordinary,"  the  chasseur  said  ;  "pray  go  on,  niy 
lord." 

"  Ah,  your  interest  is  aroused  at  last.  Wait  until  you  have 
heard  all.  The  two  men  parted  in  Castleford,  High  street,  and 
Davis  followed  the  wrong  man,  Sir  Peter.  His  professional  in- 
stincts told  him  the  other  was  his  game,  but  his  orders  were  Sir 
Peter.  The  baronet  remained  widiin  doors  all  next  day — and 
Davis  strolled  quietly  over  to  Bracken  Hollow,  and  hung  about 
the  trees,  keeping  the  windows  well  in  sight.  He  made  two 
discoveries — first  that  Miss  Herncastle  was  still  there,  second 
that  she  and  the  old  woman  have  a  prisoner  of  some  kind  in 
hitling." 

"  A  prisoner  !  "  O'Donnell  repeated,  thinking  of  what  he  had 
heard  at  that  gruesome  house. 

"  A  prisoner — an  ?V//<?/.  Davis  is  certain.  It — he  .or  she — 
he  couldn't  tell  which,  came  to  the  window  twice,  jibberingand 
moaning,  and  uttering  strange,  unearthly  sounds.  Once  the 
hard  feat lu-ed  old  woman  pulled  him  away,  exclaiming,  'Drat 
the  fool  !  a  body  can't  turn  their  back  but  you're  at  the  window.' 
The  second  time  Miss  Herncastle  drew  him  back — speaking 
very  gently  and  kindly.  He  saw  her  qiiite  plainly,  the  window 
was  up  and  she  shut  it  down.     As  dusk  drew  on  he  returned  to 


48o 


A   CHAPTER   OF  WONDERS. 


li  " 

r 


3 


Casllcforcl  and  his  watch  on  the  baronet.  Sir  Peter  was  out — 
hiul  gone  fur  a  walk — tt)  \\\c  ccnu-'rcry  of  all  places  ;  nncl  Davis 
slii)pe(l  ir.to  iiis  rouni.  If  he  could  only  stow  himself  away  and 
see  and  hear  what  went  on  !  There  was  an  old-fashioned  clothes- 
press  at  one  end,  with  ii  small  window,  Imng  from  within  with  a 
muslin  blind.  lie  ran  the  risk  and  took  his  post  in  there.  A^ 
ten  [Jiecisely  Sir  Peter  entered  and  Daiilree  with  him.  The 
baronet  sat  with  his  back  to  the  clothes-press,  Dantree  in  plain 
view.  Again  Davis  was  struck  with  Uie  familiarity  of  the  dice, 
but  lohcre  had  he  seen  it?  He  looked  and  listened,  and  the 
game  went  on.  It  was  ecarte,  and,  before  the  first  quarter  of  an 
hour  was  over,  he  saw  that  the  baronet  did  not  stand  the  ghost 
of  a  cha«ice  against  his  adversary.  Dantree  was  far  and  away 
the  better  player  of  the  two.  And  he  had  sat  down  to  win — his 
losses  last  night  had  been  but  the  usual  ruse.  They  played,  and 
from  the  first  game  luck  went  steadily  against  the  baronet.  He 
ordered  wine  and  brandy,  he  drank  recklessly — his  eagerness 
and  fury  were  something  horrible.  Dantree  won  and  won — 
his  daiic  face  like  stone,  his  eyes  devilish  in  their  malice  and 
triumph.  Morning  was  breaking  when  he  arose,  and  he  held  in 
his  hand  Sir  Peter's  check  for  eight  thousand  i)ounds.  They 
had  played  for  high  stakes,  and  luck  had  gone  dead  against  the 
baronet. 

"  *  ril  win  it  back — by  Heaven,  I  will ! '  Sir  Peter  cried, 
livid  and  trembling  with  fury.  *  Remember,  Dantree,  you're  to 
return  to-night ;  Pll  have  it  back  or  lose  more.' 

"  Dantree  bowed  and  smiled  suavely. 

"  '  1  shall  only  be  too  happy  to  give  you  your  revenge.  Sir 
Peter.     1  shall  return  without  iiiil  to-night.'  *■ 

"  Sir  Peter  accompanied  him  to  the  door.  Davis  seized  the 
opportunity  to  slip  from  his  hiding  place,  half  stifled  from  want 
of  air,  and  half  dead  from  want  of  sleep.  But  before  sleej)  or 
rest  was  the  necessity  of  linding  out  something  more  about  this 
fortunate  Dantree.  He  resolved  to  follow  him  home,  and  he 
did  it.  In  the  gray  of  the  summer  morning  he  dogged  Dan- 
tree to  his  abode.  It  was — here  is  another  astonisher  for  you — 
Bracken  HoUoiur 

Tlfc  chasseur  could  only  sit  and  stare.  "  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 
he  murmured,  helplessly. 

"  Bracken  Hollow.  And  as  he  watched  him  enter,  the  whole 
truth  burst  upon  him — the  familiarity-  of  his  face,  his  walk — • 
we-e  ex[)lained.  Gaston  Dantree  and  Helen  Herncaslle  were 
one  and  the  same." 


i 


•\ 


A    CHAPTER   OF   IVONDERS. 


cier  was  out — 
X's  ;  and  Davis 
iself  away  and 
lioned  clothcs- 
n  within  with  a 
t  in  there.     i\\ 
\\  him.     The 
antree  in  plain 
ty  of  tlie  face, 
tened,  and  the 
t  (luarter  of  an 
land  the  gliost 
far  and  away 
wn  to  win — liis 
ley  played,  and 
e  baronet.     He 
his  eagerness 
on  and  won — 
leir  malice  and 
,  and  he  held  in 
)ounds.     They 
ead  against  the 

ir  Peter  cried, 
ntree,  you're  to 


Lir  revenge,  Sir 

avis  seized  the 
fled  from  want 
jefore  sleep  or 
lore  about  this 
home,  and  he 
dogged  Dan- 
sher  for  you — 

en  Hollow  ?  " 

iter,  the  whole 
:e,  his  walk — 
rncastle  were 


481 


O'Donnell  fairly  rose  from  his  chair  in  the  intensity  of  his 


surprise. 


led. 


lord,  what 


ible  !  "  he  exclaii 
"sayii:g?     Oh,  this  is  too  much  !  " 

"It  is  the  truth — I  am  convinced  of  it.  That  woman  is 
capable  of  anything — anything  under  Heaven.  She  personated 
Frankiand  at  the  ball,  she  personates  Gaston  Dantree  now. 
(lascon  Dantree  in  propria  persona  it  couldn't  be — that  I 
know." 

•*  You  know — how  ?  " 

"  When  I  got  that  card,  and  heard  Davis'  description  of  him, 
I  went  to  Dr.  Graves,  of  Castleford.  He  knew  him,  you  re- 
member ;  and  asked  him  for  information.  The  description  he 
gave  me  of  Dantree  in  no  way  agreed  with  Davis'  description, 
except  in  the  color  of  the  hair  and  mustache.  I  asked  Graves 
if  Dantree  ever  recovered  from  his  fall  downstairs.  The  doctor 
shook  his  head.  I  have  asked  Otis,  and  he  says  yes,  but  I 
don't  believe  it.  He  couldn't  recover.  Alive  he  may  be — but 
if  alive  he  is  an  idiot.  It  was  impossible,  from  the  nature  of 
the  iiijury  he  received,  that  health  and  reason  could  both  re- 
turn." 

O'  Donnell  sat  mute,  his  head  in  a  whirl. 

"  Davis  came  to  me,  made  his  report,  returned  to  the  Silver 
Rose,  and  slept  all  day.  Sir  Peter  kept  his  bed  all  day — I 
visited  the  Scarswood  Arms  and  found  that  out.  Then  I  took 
a  stroll  in  the  direction  of  Bracken  Hollow.  Jt  is  the  loneliest 
of  all  lonely  places — ..0  one  ever  goes  there.  The  thick  growth 
of  trees  renders  it  a  capital  spot  for  a  spy.  Safely  out  of  sight 
myself,  I  watched  that  upper  window.  I  had  my  reward — the 
jibbering,  idiotic  face  appeared,  laughing,  mouthing,  and  talk- 
ing to  itself.  I  had  brought  with  me  a  powerful  pocket  telescope, 
and  took  a  long  look  before  any  one  came.  O'Donnell,  here 
is  the  crowning  discovery  of  the  whole — I  believe  that  idiot 
hidden  at  Bracken  Hollow  to  be  Gaston  Dantree  I  " 

"Gracious  Heaven  !" 

"  Graves  had  described  the  face,  remember,  and  I  had  a  good 
look.  The  description  tallied.  It  was  a  handsome  flico — or 
had  been  when  the  light  of  reason  was  there  ;  black  eyes,  black 
hair — regular  features,  and  shaven  smooth.  The  idea  would 
not  have  struck  me  had  Graves  not  mentio'i^d  that  Dantree,  if 
alive,  must  be  an  idiot.  The  question  i.^,  what  brings  him 
there  ?  " 

"  A   question    I  cannot  answer.     I   am   utterly    lazed  and 
21 


;  I 


482 


A    CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


stunned.  I  never  heard  such  an  extraordinary  chain  of  occur- 
rences in  all  my  life.  To  think  that  Miss  Herncastle  should 
personate  Gaston  Dantree.  My  lord,  it  seems  it  must  be  sim- 
\)ly  preposterous.  Why,  Sir  Peter  knew  Dantree — would  see 
the  imposture  at  once." 

"  Sir  Peter  would  see  nothing  of  the  kind — Sir  Peter  is  as 
blind  as  a  bat,  can't  see  two  inches  beyond  his  own  nose.  He 
takes  Gaston  Dantree  for  granted.  Davis  is  right,  you'll  find. 
Was  there  ever  such  another  woman  in  the  world  ?  " 

"Never,  I  hope.  And  it  is  really  your  impression  that  Gas- 
ton Dantree,  an  idiot,  is  imprisoned  at  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 

"It  is  really  my  impression,  and  I  can  only  account  for  it  in 
this  way  :  Katherine  Dangerfield  left  him  in  charge  of  this  Mr. 
Otis — from  what  I  )iear  I  infer  Otis  was  in  love  with  Katherine 
Dangerfield,  and  her  wishes  were  sacicd.  He  restored  Dan- 
tree to  health  but  not  to  reason,  and  p'aced  him  with  the  girl's 
nurse  in  this  desolate  house.  That  is  my  theory,  and  it  will 
hold  good  in  the  end,  you'll  find." 

"  If  you  saw  a  portrait  of  this  Gaston  Dantree,"  O'Donnell 
said,  thoughtfully,  "you.  could  tell,  I  suppose,  whether  or  no  it 
was  the  same  face  you  saw  at  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain  I  could.  But  is  it  probable  we  can  procure 
such  a  portrait  ?  " 

"It  is  possible,  I  think.  Pray  go  on  and  let  me  hear  all. 
Did  Gaston  Dantree  or  Helen  Herncastle  return  to  the  Scars- 
wood  Arms  that  night  ?  " 

"  That  night  was  last  night,  and  the  soi-disant  Dantree 
returned.  Just  before  nightfall  Davis  resumed  his  post  under 
the  fir-trees  to  watch  and  wait.  He  was  close  to  the  house  and 
kept  his  eye  well  on  the  windows.  He  saw  nothing,  but  he 
heard  as  unearthly  and  blood-curdling  a  cry  as  ever  came  from 
maniac  lips.  If  the  house  were  not  so  utterly  isolated  and 
reputed  to  be  haunted  (from  those  very  cries),  the  keeping  of 
this  imbecile  there,  unknown,  could  never  have  gone  on  this 
long.  It  was  a  hazy,  muggy  sort  of  day,  sultry  and  sunless, 
and  at  half-past  eight  was  quite  dark.  There  was  neither  moon 
nor  stars.  Taking  advantage  of  the  gloom  my  detective  actu 
ally  entered  the  stone  porch  and  examined  the  fastenings  of  the 
door.  He  found  them,  as  he  suspected,  old  and  frail — in  ten 
minutes  at  any  time  he  could  effect  an  entrance.  No  doubt 
the  windows  were  the  same,  but  before  he  could  test  the  win- 
dows he  heard  bolts  undrawn  and  voices  from  within.  He  had 
just  time  to  dart  behind  the  porch  when  Miss  Ilcrncasl  r"  made 


A    CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


chain  of  occur- 
irncastle  should 
It  must  be  sim- 
itree — would  see 

■Sir  Peter  is  as 
own  nose.     He 

■ight,  you'll  find. 

rid  ?  " 

ession  that  Gas- 
t  Hollow  ?  " 
account  for  it  in 
'arge  of  this  Mr. 
■  with  Katherine 
restored  Dan- 
»  with  the  girl's 
2ory,  and  il;  will 

ee,"  O'Donnell 
vhether  or  no  it 

we  can  procure 

et  me  hear  all. 
■n  to  the  Scars- 

'isant  Dan  tree 
his  post  under 
the  house  and 
othing,  but  he 
vex  came  from 
'  isolated  and 
lie  keeping  of 

gone  on  this 

and  sunless, 
neither  moon 
etcctive  actu 
eningsofihe 

frail— in  ten 
•  No  doubt 
test  the  win- 
in-  He  had 
icasl  .f  ;n;.ide 


483 


her  appearance — Miss  Herncastle,  en  garqon,  and  a  very  flash- 
ing young  fellow  she  makes,  Davis  tells  me,  black  mustache, 
black  evening  suit,  slouched  wide-awake  hat,  and  a  wig  of  curly 
black  liair.  Davis  has  the  eye  of  a  hawk — he  knew  her 
instanter.  A  tall,  hard-featured  old  woman  followed  ;  old  Han- 
nah, no  doubt,  once  Katherine  Dangerfield's  nurse. 

"  *  It's  a  daring  game — a  dangerous  game,  my  child,'  he 
heard  the  eld  woman  say  in  an  anxious  tone.  '  You'll  play  it 
once  too  often  I  greatly  fear.  Let  Sir  Peter  once  suspect,  and 
you're  caught  like  a  mouse  in  a  trap.  He  has  the  cunning  of 
Satan.     I  know  that  of  old.* 

"  *  ^Ve  both  know  it,  don't  we,  Hannah  ? '  he  heard  Miss 
Herncastle  say — (there's  no  mistaking  his  description  of  her 
soft,  slow,  sweet  tones;  the  one  thing  it  appears  she  cannot 
change),  '  and  to  our  cost.  Let  us  see  if  my  cunning  cannot 
overmatch  his  now.  It's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning.  I 
think  the  turning  for  the  most  noble  baronet  of  Scarswood  has 
come,  and  he  shall  find  it  out  shortly  to  his  cost.  Do  you  know 
the  vow  I  vowed  that  last  night  long  ago  when  he  insulted  me? 
"  Living,"  I  said,  "  I  will  pursue  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth 
— dead,  I  will  come  from  the  grave  to  torment  you."  Hannah, 
I  have  kept  that  vow.  I  have  come  from  the  grave — from  the 
very  jaws  of  death  ;  to  torment  him.  1  have  separated  him  from 
his  wife — I  have  frightened  him  with  ghost-seeing  until  his  own 
shadow  on  the  wall  makes  him  tremble  and  turn  pale,  and  last, 
but  not  least — I  take  his  money.  Six  thousand  in  one  night  is 
a  very  respectable  1.  aul.  Hannah — let  us  see  if  we  cannot  make 
it  six  more  to-night.  He  doesn't  know  what  a  severe  appren- 
ticeship I  have  passed  to  all  grades  of  skill  for  his  benefit.  He 
is  paying  me  back  the  three  thousand  he  once  refused,  with  inter- 
est, is  he  not?  Good-night,  Hannah,  don't  fear  for  me.  After 
to-night  Sir  Peter  shall  have  breathing  space.  Try  and  keep 
our  poor  patient  quiet;  this  seems  one  of  his  noisy  nights. 
And  don't  sit  up  for  me — there's  a  good  soul.  I  won't  be  home 
until  daylight.' 

"A  very  remirkable  and  mysterious  speech,  is  it  not,  O'Don- 
nell? It  strucL  Davis  in  that  light,  and  he  recollected  every 
word  of  it,  but  then  Davis  has  an  uncommonly  tenacious  memory. 
\Vhat  do  you  suppose  she  could  have  meant  now  by  coming 
from  the  grave,  and  vowing  vows,  and  all  that  melodrama  ? 
Did  Katherine  Dangerfield  not  die  after  all  ?  Was  that  'death 
and  burial  only  sham  ;  and  is  Miss  Herncastle  Katherine  Dan- 
gc'i  lield  alive  in  flesh  ?  " 


I1< 


5  I 


lU 


484 


A    CHAPTER    OF   WONDERS. 


His  lordship  looked  keenly  across  the  table  at  his  companion. 
Still  the  chasseur  sat  like  the  marble  Agamemnon  behind  him, 
his  ^ace  locked  in  as  stony  calm. 

'*  (lO  on,"  was  his  grim  response. 

"  Davis  followed,  as  in  duty  bound,  and  saw  the  personator 
of  Mr.  Dantree  safe  within  the  baronet's  apartments.  He  hov- 
ered about  the  passage — airing  his  eye  and  ear  at  the  keyhole 
when  opportunity  presented.  They  played  the  live-long  night 
— the  baronet  more  desperately,  more  recklessly  than  ever, 
more  like  a  madman,  indeed,  than  a  sane  gambler.  He  drank 
brandy  at  a  perfectly  furious  rate — he  doubled  and  redoubled 
ti.e  stakes  and  still  he  lost — lost.  He  seemed  to  go  mad  at 
last ;  an  immense  heap  of  gold  and  bank-notes  changed  hands. 
Davis  calculates  that  he  must  have  lost  enormously — thousands. 
He  sprang  up  at  last  as  day  was  dawning,  with  a  perfect  shriek 
of  rage  and  frenzy,  accused  Dantree  of  foul  play,  of  being 
in  league  with  the  devil  to  rob  him.  Dantree  laughed  in  his 
face,  and  swept  the  gold  and  notes  into  his  pockets,  filling  them 
all. 

"  '  I'll  take  your  check  for  the  remainder,  Sir  Peter  Danger- 
field,'  he  said,  coolly;  'eighteen  hundred  pounds  exactly.' 

"  The  words  seemed  to  goad  the  little  baronet  to  madness  ; 
he  sprang  upon  Dantree  and  seized  him  'ay  the  throat  (I  say 
Dantree,  you  understand,  for  convenience).  The  next  instant 
there  was  p.  sharp  click,  and  through  the  keyhole  Davis  saw  the 
cold  muzzle  of  a  pistol  held  within  an  inch  of  the  baronet' ""j  head. 

"  '  You  coward— you  bully — you  fool ! '  he  heard  Dar.tree  say 
between  his  clenched  teeth.  'St?  id  otT,  or,  by  the  Lord  that 
made  me,  I'll  shoot  you.     Write  out  the  check,  or — ' 

"  He  did  not  need  to  say  more.  The  baronet  turned  of  a 
greenish  white,  and  fell  back  with  a  yelp  of  terror.  He  wrote 
the  check,  his  hand  shaking  so  tha<-  he  could  hardly  hold  the 
pen,  and  passed  it  v/ith  a  white  face  of  abject  fear  to  the 
ctlier.     Dantree  pocketed  it  and  the  pistol. 

"  '  I  shall  cash  these  checks  at  Castlei'ord  Bank  to-day,'  were 
his  parting  words,  'and  I  shall  carry  my  pistol.  Don't  let  me 
see  you  anywhere  in  the  visible  ho.izon.  Shall  we  cry  quits 
this  morning,  or  shall  I  return  to-night  and  give  you  a  second 
revenge V  He  laughed  insolently  in  Sir  Peter's  face.  'Ah,  I 
see.  ''■''ou've  had  enough.  Well,  good  ir.Grning  to  you,  Sir 
Peter.  My  advice  is  like  Lady  Macbeth's  :  "  To  bed  !  to  bed  I  " 
You  really  haven't  the  nerve,  you  know,  for  this  sort  of  thing. 
As  I've  heard  them  say  out  in  New  York  :  "  You  can't  gamble 


A    CHAPTER  OF   WONDERS. 


485 


lis  companion, 
'n  behind  him, 


he  personator 
Jnts.     He  hov- 
|at  the  keyhole 
ilive-long  night 
sly  than  ever, 
r.     He  drank 
nd  redoubled 
to  go  mad  at 
langed  hands. 
y — thousands, 
perfect  shriek 
'lay,  of  being 
laughed  in  his 
s,  filling  them 

'eter  Danger- 

exactly.' 
t  to  madness ; 

throat  (I  say 

-  next  instant 

Ravis  saw  the 

ironet'o  head. 

I  Dar.tree  say 

he  Lord  that 
> 

:  turned  of  a 

He  wrote 

rdly  hold  the 

fear  to  the 

to-day,'  were 
"^on't  let  nie 
ve  cry  (juits 
ou  a  second 
ce.  'Ah,  I 
to  you,  Sir 
i !  to  bed  /  " 
rt  of  thing, 
m't  gamble 


worth  a  cent."     Once  more,  most  noble  Lord  of  Scarswood, 
adieu ! ' 

*'  Davis  followed  Mr.  Dantree  back,  and  saw  him  safely  ' 
housed  at  Bracken  Hollow.  Then  he  returned — to  report  to 
me  and  take  his  necessary  sleep.  Oft"  and  on  I  have  been  on 
the  watch  myself  to-day,  but  have  discovered  nothing.  1  also 
called  upon  Sir  Peter  this  afternoon,  and  found  him  in  bed — 
his  complexion  yellower  than  I  ever  saw  it,  his  wizen  face 
more  wizen — a  picture  of  abjett  misery  and  despair.  He  was 
only  too  glad  to  pour  his  piteous  tale  into  any  sympathetic  ear. 
He  had  lost  in  two  nights  thirteen  thousand  pounds.  Enor- 
mous stakes,  surely.  I  got  the  story  of  the  pistol,  of  Dantree's 
threatening  language,  of  his  conviction  of  foul  play.  Personal 
fear  of  that  pistol  alone  prevents  his  giving  the  case  into  the 
hands  of  the  police,  and  having  Dantree  arrested  for  carrying 
deadly  weapons  and  threatening  his  life.  Of  his  wife  or  the 
separation  he  declined  to  speak  -that  is  a  minor  matter  com- 
pared to  the  loss  of  his  money.  Now,  my  idea  is,  to  find 
Miss  Herncastle,  prove  my  knowledge  of  her  infamous  con- 
duct— threaten  her  with  the  law,  and  make  her  refrmd  all,  or 
part,  of  her  ill-gotten  gain.  Then  I  shall  make  its  restoration 
and  her  exposure  the  price  of  Sir  Peter's  peace  with  his  wife. 
I  see  no  other  way  at  present  to  patch  up  matters  between 
him  and  Ginevra." 

"And  that  will  fail,"  O'Donnell  said,  decisively.  "You 
mistake  both  Miss  Herncastle  and  Sir  Peter  if  you  fancy  you 
can  intimidate  the  one,  or  trust  the  other.  She  will  laugh  in 
your  face  as  she  did  in  his,  and  defy  you,  and  he  will  promise 
whatever  you  desire,  and  break  the  promise,  the  instant  the 
money  is  restored.     That  way  is  hopeless,  believe  me." 

"  Then  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Let  this  nefarious  plot  go  on 
— let  her  escape  with  her  spoils — let  this  idiot  remain  shut  up 
there — terrifying  all  who  hear  him?  O'Donnell,  you  know 
more  of  this  extraordinary  woman  than  you  choose  to  tell ;  in 
the  face  of  all  this,  can  you  still  be  silent  ?  It  is  the  duty  of 
every  man  to  hunt  such  a  woman  as  that  down." 

"  And  yet  to  hunt  any  woman  down  seems  hardly  a  credit- 
able or  manly  thing.  And  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  and  Gaston 
Dantree  may  have  rightly  earned  all  that  has  befallen  them.  I 
believe  all  you  have  told  me  of  Miss  Herncastle,  and  yet  with- 
out being  particularly  maudlin  or  soft-hearted,  I  don'c  feel  dis- 
posed to  sit  in  judgment  upon  her.  Wait,  my  lord,  give  me 
time  to  think.     One's  head  whirls  after  all  this." 


if  'i 
I.   .1 


mm 


'|. 


486 


A    CHAPTER   OF   WONDERS. 


"  What  is  that  you  said  about  the  bonti-fide  Dantree's  pict- 
ure ?  I  would  like  to  see  it  if  you  can  procure  it.  Who  has  it  ?  " 
*  "I  don't  know  that  anyone  has  it,  but  I  fancy  my  sistei 
may?" 

"  Your  sister  !" 

"Yes — Rose.  Your  lordship  will  recollect  she's  fiom  New 
Orleans,  and  I  am  aware  she  knows  this  Dantree.  She  did 
not  speak  of  it — it  was  not  necessary ;  and  his  acquaintance, 
as  he  turned  out  here,  was  hardly  a  thing  to  boast  of.  It 
still  wants  a  few  minutes  of  eleven,"  he  i)ulled  out  his  watch. 
"She  may  not  have  retired.  I'll  runup  to  her  room,  if  you 
like,  and  ascc  tain." 

Lord  Ruysland  signified  his  wish,  and  the  chasseur  ran, 
three  steps  at  a  time,  up  the  broad,  low  stairs.  He  tapped  at 
his  sister's  door. 

"  It  is  I,  Rose,"  he  said.    "If  you  are  up,  let  me  in." 

The  door  opened  immediately— Rose,  in  a  white  dressing- 
gown,  brushing  out  her  long,  dark  hair,  stood  before  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  you,  when  I  promised  to  hunt  up  this 
fellow  Dantree,  if  you  had  any  portrait  of  him.  Of  course  it 
is  necessary  to  know  what  he  is  like,  and  no  description  is 
equal  to  a  likeness.     Have  you  one  ?  " 

She  bent  her  head  and  moved  away  to  her  writing-case. 
Out  of  one  of  the  drawers  she  procured  a  card  picture 
wrapped  in  silver  paper.     She  placed  it  in  her  brother's  hand. 

"  It  is — it  was  a  most  excellent  likeness.  Any  one  who 
ever  saw  him  once  would  recognize  it.  Redmond,  have  you 
heard — is  there  any  news  of — "     Her  voice  died  away. 

"  I  will  tell  you  in  a  day  or  two.  I  have  reason  to  think  he 
is  not  dead.  As  yet  of  course  I  know  nothing  positively.  In 
any  zzs^  you  are  safe  from  him,  Rose." 

He  was  looking  at  the  picture  as  he  spoke.  A  photograph 
softly  tinted — finely  executed.  In  all  its  brilliant  beaute  du 
diahle  the  fatal  face  that  had  wrecked  the  lives  of  Marie  De 
I. ansae  and  Katherine  Dangerfield  looked  up  at  him  from  the 
card — the  pictured  eyes  alight — the  square-cut,  perfect  mouth 
half-smiling — faukless  almost  as  the  face  of  the  Apollo.  As  he 
looked,  O'Donnell  for  the  first  time  could  understand  and 
almost  forgive  his  sister's  folly. 

"  A  rarely  perfect  face,"  he  thought,  '*  a  face  to  make  a  fool 
of  any  woman.  And  to  think  the  end  of  all  his  brilliance,  all 
his  beauty,  should  be — Bracken  Hollow." 


p. 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


)an tree's  pict- 

Whohasit?" 

|ancy  my  sistei 

le's  fi  om  New 
Itree.  She  did 
I  acquaintance, 

boast  of.  It 
[out  his  watch. 
[r  room,  if  you 

chasseur  ran. 
He  tapped  at 

le  in." 

hite  dressing- 
are  him. 

hunt  up  this 

Of  course  it 

description  is 

writing-case, 
card  picture 
other's  hand, 
ny  one  who 
id,  have  you 
Lway. 

1  to  think  he 
sitively.     In 

photograi)h 
It  be  ante  dii 
r  Marie  De 
iin  from  the 
rfect  mouth 
'Ho.  As  he 
rstand  and 

lake  a  fool 
illiance,  all 


487 


He  left  his  sister,  rejoined  the  earl,  now  pacing  to  and  fro 
the  library.  In  the  past  twenty  years  of  his  life  Lord  Rr.ys- 
land  had  never  been  fully  aroused  from  his  supineness  before — 
never  entered  heart  and  soul  into  anything  as  he  was  entering 
into  the  hunting  down  of  this  young  woman.  He  paused  and 
looked  at  the  vignette. 

"It  is  as  I  fancied,"  O'Donnell  said.  "Rose  has  his  pict- 
ure. No  doubt  he  favored  all  the  young  ladies  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  his  handsome  face.  Here — look  and  tell  me  if  his 
is  the  face  you  saw  ?  " 

Under  his  outward  carelessness  his  pulses  were  throbbing 
with  feverish  fear.  He  handed  the  earl  the  picture.  The 
next  instant  he  was  aroused  as  the  earl  uttered  a  cry  of  recog- 
nition. 

"  I  knew  I  was  right ! "  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  suppressed  in- 
tensity. "  This  is  the  face  I  saw  at  the  window — the  face  of 
old  Hannah's  visitor — younger,  handsomer,  but  the  same. 
This  picture  makes  that  much  clear,  at  least — Gaston  Dantree 
is  the  idiot  of  Bracken  Hollow." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


THE     LAST    LINK. 


|HE  late  Parliamentary  train  rushing  into  the  Castle- 
ford  station  some  time  after  nine  on  the  evening  of 
this  same  eighth  of  August,  brought  among  its  passen- 
gers a  little  woman,  dressed  in  black  silk,  wearing  a 
Paisley  shawl  and  a  close  black  veil.  The  black  silk  was 
shabby,  the  Paisley  shawl  bore  marks  of  age  and  wear,  the 
little  straw  bonnet  was  last  season's  shape,  and  two  words 
accurately  describe  the  little  woman  tripping  along  the  station 
— shabby  genteel.  She  entered  the  ladies'  waiting-room,  her 
veil  still  over  her  tace,  leaving  no  feature  discernible  save  the 
hard,  bright  glitter  of  the  black  eyes.  She  glanced  around  with 
a  half-eager,  half-frightened  air,  but  no  creature  was  visible  save 
herself 

"I  thought — I  thought  he  might  be  here,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper  under  her  veil.     "  I  feel  afraid  to-night— -I  don't  know 


488 


THE  LAST  LINK, 


of  what — I  have  had  the  feeling  since  I  got  the  letter  first. 
What  if  it  should  be  a  trap — and  yet  how  can  it  ?  Who  knows 
— who  would  take  the  trouble  ?     If  I  only  dare  inquire." 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  irresolute,  went  forward, 
came  back,  stood  still  again,  undecided. 

"  I  don't  know  what  ails  me  to-night,"  she  muttered.  "  I  feel 
as  though  I  were  going  to  die  or — or  something  terrible  about 
to  happen.  Is  it  a  presentiment?  Lord  Ruysland  is  here — 
she  is  here.  My  little  one — mine — the  only  creature  on  earth 
tiuit  belongs  to  me.  If  I  could  only  see  her — if  I  thought 
Lionel  meant  what  he  says.  It  seems  far  too  good  to  be  true — 
it  is  like  a  dream." 

She  drew  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  a  letter,  and  looked 
at  the  envelope  and  superscription.  It  was  postmarked 
Castleford  and  addressed  : 

Mme.  Harriet  Vavasor, 

Rue  de ,  Paris. 

in  a  large,  masculine  hand.  She  opened  it,  and  read  for  the 
hundredth  time  its  contents  : 

"  Harriet: — I  am  in  England  once  more,  in  Castleford,  on  a  visit  to 
Lord  Ruysland.  My  wife  is  dead  out  in  Quebec.  After  infinite  trouble  I 
have  discovered  your  address.  Harriet,  I  know  all— the  miserable  story 
of  my  dead  sister's  plotting  that  separated  us  four-and-twenty  years  ago. 
]f  the  memory  of  that  time  has  not  wholly  died,  if  you  are  free  as  I  am, 
come  to  Castleford  and  meet  me.  I  enclosed  z.billct  dcbanqne  in  case  you 
should  need  it.  Do  not  ask  for  me — let  no  one  suspect  or  frustrate  us  this 
time.  We  will  meet  in  secret.  On  the  night  of  the  eighth  of  August,  at 
U'li  o'clock,  I  will  be  in  waiting  near  the  gate  of  the  house  known  as  Bracken 
Hollow.  You  know  it,  beyond  doubt.  When  we  meet  I  will  explain  every- 
thing— the  cause  of  this  secrecy,  why  I  have  selected  that  particular  spot, 
liuw  1  discovered  your  identity  with  the  Mrs.  Vavasor,  who  six  years  ago 
visi'.ed  Sir  John  Dangerfield,  Only  come.  I  long  for  you  as  ardently  as 
I  did  four-and-twenty  years  ago.  You  would  not  have  failed  me  then  ;  do 
not  fail  now. 

"Lionel  Cardanell.'*" 

She  read  this  singular  epistle  over  word  for  word,  then  folded 
and  replaced  it  in  her  dress. 

"  If  1  only  dare  ask,"  she  muttered  again.  "  But  if  I  obey 
him  in  one  thing  I  obey  him  in  all.  And  it  must  be  all  right. 
Who  is  there  alive  that  knows — who  would  take  the  trouble  to 
delude  me  ?  To  think — to  think,  after  all  these  years,  I  shall 
stand  face  to  face  with  him  again.  His  wife  dead — he  free. 
And  I — if  he  should  discover  the  hideous  story  of  the  past,  my 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


|hc  letter  first. 
Who  knows 
Inquire." 

went  forward, 

-red.  "  I  feel 
[terrible  about 
pnd  is  here — 

iture  on  earth 
-if  1  thought 
pd  to  be  true — 

tr,  and  looked 
postmarked  . 


489 


d  read  for  the 


rd,  on  a  visit  to 
ifinite  trouble  I 
miserable  story 
enty  years  aeo. 
le  free  as  I  am, 
<]iie  in  case  you 
frustrate  us  this 
li  of  August,  at 
3vvn  as  Bracken 
J  explain  every- 
>articular  spot, 
>  six  years  ago 
as  ardently  as 
1  me  then  ;  do 

RDANKLL."' 

then  folded 

It  if  I  obey 
3e  all  right, 
trouble  to 
ars,  I  shall 
3 — he  ixQQ. 
le  past,  my 


past — all  my  crime — all  niy  wrong-doing,  the  story  of  my  life 
revenge." 

'1  he  station  clock  struck  sharply  the  quarter  past  nine.  It 
aroused  her ;  there  was  no  time  to  spare.  She  walked  reso- 
lutely out  of  the  waiting-room — a  fly  stood  near.  She  beckoned 
to  the  driver  to  approach. 

"  You  know  Bracken  Hollow  ?  " 

"  Surely,  n)a' am,"  looking  suspiciously  at  the  veiled  face; 
"  a  main  and  lonesome  place  it  be." 

'*  I  want  to  go  th'::re — at  least  to  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
or  so.  •   I  will  pay  you  now  ;  how  much  ?  " 

The  flyman  named  his  price.  She  counted  it  into  his  palm, 
and  took  her  seat.  In  a  moment  they  were  rattling  through 
Castleford  High  street  on  their  way.  She  looked  about  her ; 
how  familiar  it  all  was  ;  the  shops  she  knew  so  well — the  Silver 
Rose  where  she  had  stopped,  the  cottage  of  Henry  Otis,  and 
(she  shuddered  as  shi  looked  at  it)  the  lonely  churchyard  with 
its  lonely  grave.  Poor  Katherine  Dangerfield  !  And  Gaston 
Dantree — what  had  become  oUiim  ?  " 

"  It's  a  story  I  hate  to  thin  .  of,"  she  thought.  "  That  dead 
girl's  face  rises  before  me  nights  when  I  can't  sleep — white  and 
still  as  I  saw  her  in  her  wedding-dress.  And  Gaston  Dantree 
— I  see  ////;/  in  my  dreams  as  I  saw  him  that  night,  all  bruised 
and  bleeding  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  All  dead,  and  through 
me.  I  wish  I  had  been  satisfied  with  my  first  revenge — when 
I  gave  the  earl  the  wrong  child.  I  wish  I  had  let  Katherine 
marry  Dantree  and  live.  It's  a  horrible  thing  to  have  a  dead 
face  haunt  one's  dreams." 

They  left  the  town  behind  and  took  the  quiet  lane  leading  to 
Bracken  Hollow.  The  night  was  close — dark,  moonless,  star- 
less ;  the  trees  loomed  up  black  on  every  hand  ;  no  living  thing 
was  to  be  seen.  That  chill  feeling  of  vague  fear  increased — it 
was  all  so  strange,  so  unreal.  Why  had  he  come  back  ?  Why 
had  he  chosen  this  desolate  spot  ?  What  was  to  come  of  it  all  ? 
She  shivered  in  the  still  warmth  of  the  night  and  wrapped  her 
shawl  closer  around  her.     The  driver  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Bracken  Hollow  be  yonder,"  he  said,  pointing  with  his 
whip.  "Keep  straight  on — there's  no  mistaking  it;  it's  not 
twenty  yards  from  this." 

He  helped  her  to  descend,  then  remounted,  turned  his  horse, 
and  went  jolting  back  toward  the  town. 

She  stood  in  the  darkness  in  the  middle  of  the  lane,  where 
he  had  left  her,  feeling  as  lost  as  a  shipwrecked  sailor  on  a 
21* 


490 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


i  *  i 


\    "'}. 


desert  island.  She  stood  watching  him  until  the  last  sound  of 
the  wheels  died  away.  Then  she  reluctantly  turned  and  looked 
before  her. 

Darkness  everywhere — black  trees — blacker  sky — dead 
eilence.     She  walked  slowly  on. 

The  gate  of  Bracken  Hollow.  Why,  she  murmured  again — 
why,  of  all  the  lonesome  place's  on  earth,  had  he  chosen  this? 

"  It  looks  like  the  place  for  a  ?nurder,"  she  thought,  glancing 
fearfully  around.  "  If  some  one  should  start  out  from  these 
trees — some  gypsy — or  poacher — or — " 

A  cry  broke  from  her  ;  she  started  back.  A  tall  figure  had 
stepped  out  from  under  the  black  trees. 

'•' Harriet ^^  a  voice  said,  "is  it  you?" 

''Lio7ielV' 

"  Ivionel  Cardanell — yes.  Then  you  have  come  !  I  feared 
you  would  not ;  you  sent  no  answer.  And  after  all  those  years, 
Harriet,  we  stand  face  to  face  again?" 

Face  to  face,  perhaps,  but,  in  the  deep  darkness,  the  face  of 
neither  to  be  seen.  Her  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  it 
seemed  to  suffocate  her.  She  could  not  speak.  He  took  both 
her  hands  in  his,  and  led  her  on. 

"  This  way,  Harriet.  I  made  Bracken  Hollow  the  place  of 
tryst  because  we  can  enter  and  talk  undisturbed.  I  feared  you 
would  not  come.  I  might  have  known  you  better  ;  I  might  have 
known  that  whenever  or  wherever  /  called,  you  would  have 
answered.     Can  you  realize,  Harriet,  that  it  is  I  ?  " 

She  could  not,  indeed.  No  voice  within  responded  to  his 
tone  or  touch.  That  creeping  sensation  of  fear  was  over  her 
still.  He  had  drawn  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  was  hurrying 
her  rapidly  on.  She  looked  up  at  him,  tall  above  her,  and 
strove  to  recall  some  resemblance.  She  could  recall  none. 
All  was  strange,  vague,  and  unknown.  She  did  not  speak  one 
word  ;  she  let  herself  be  hurried  on,  breathless  and  palpitat- 
ing. 

They  reached  the  gate  ;  he  opened  it.  The  house  loomed 
u]),  all  darkness  and  silent  amid  its  funeral  trees.  At  sight  of 
it  she  suddenly  stopped. 

"  I  can'i  go  on  !  "  she  gasped — "  I  can't  enter  there  I  It 
looks  like  Hades  itself!  Oh,  Lionel  Cardanell,  is  this  really 
you  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  come  !  "  was  his  only  answer,  spoken  firmly. 

He  hurried  her  forward  ;  she  had  no  power  or  strength  to 
resist.     The  door  was  flung  wide  at  their  approach.     Almost 


msi 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


491 


last  sound  of 
ied  and  looked 

[r     sky— dead 

lured  again — 

chosen  this  ? 

[light,  glancing 

Vt  from  these 

pall  figure  had 


lel     I  feared 
11  those  years, 

3s,  the  face  of 

0  fast  that  it 
He  took  both 

v^  the  place  of 
I  feared  you 

1  might  have 
would  have 

onded  to  his 
vas  over  her 
was  hurrying 
>ve  her,  and 
recall  none. 
>t  speak  one 
■nd  palpitat- 

use  loomed 
At  sight  of 

there !     It 
this  really 

:en  firmly, 
strength  to 
»•     Almost 


before  she  could  realize  it  she  was  in  the  house — in  a  lighted 
room  ;  the  door  was  closed  behind  her,  locked  and  barred. 

An  old  woman  stood  before  her ;  at  her  she  did  not  look. 
She  turned  to  the  man,  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  His  coat- 
collar  was  turnt.i  up,  his  slouched  hat  pulled  down ;  but  hidden 
as  his  face  was,  she  knew  in  an  instant  it  was  not  the  man  she 
had  come  to  meet. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  whisper,  her  black  eyes 
gleaming  fearfully  through  her  veil. 

He  turned  down  his  collar,  took  off  his  hat,  and  showed  the 
pale,  set  face  of — Henry  Otis. 

"You  recognize  me,  Mrs.  Vavasor?  Yes,  I  see  you  do.  It 
is  many  years  since  we  met,  but  your  memory  is  good,  I  know 
of  old.  Will  you  not  put  up  your  veil  and  let  us  see  you. 
Further  disguise  is  unnecessary." 

She  obeyed  him.  She  flung  back  the  veil  and  showed  a  face, 
aged,  sallow,  pallid  with  fear — all  trace  of  beauty  gone — noth- 
ing of  it  remaining  but  the  wild  black  eyes. 

•'  Mr.  Otis,"  she  gasped,  "  why  have  you  done  this  ?" 

"To  make  you  tell  the  truth  at  last,"  he  answered.  "There 
is  but  one  way  of  dealing  with  such  women  as  you — and 
that  is  the  dark  way  of  deceit.  Yes,  I  wrote  you  that  letter 
Lionel  Cardanell.  I  knew  that  poetic  idyl  of  your 
you  see ;  and  it  has  succeeded  better  even  than  I 
You  have  no  idea  what  a  task  it  was  to  hunt  you  up, 
and  then  hit  on  a  scheme  to  fetch  you  here  ;  but  I  have  done 
both.  If  you  had  not  come  tc  me,  /  should  have  gone  to  you. 
Take  a  seat ;  you  look  fatigued.  Hannah,  Mrs.  Vavasor  will 
take  a  glass  of  wine." 

She  sank  into  the  seat,  her  eyes  fixed  fearfully  upon  ^im,  her 
very  lips  trembling.  Years  and  dissipation  had  told  upon  Mrs. 
Vavasor's  strong  nerves. 

"  Why  have  you  brought  me  to  this  place  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  to  murder  you — do  not  be  afraid ;  though  it  looks 
gruesome  enough  for  a  murder,  I  dare  say.  I  don't  mean  to 
do  you  the  least  harm — to  do  you  good  indeed — to  make  you 
tell  the  truth." 

"  The  truth  about  what  ?  " 

He  leaned  across — there  was  a  table  between  them,  and  his 
steely  blue  eyes  seemed  to  cut  into  her  very  heart. 

"  About  the  children  you  changed  at  nurse  twenty  years  ago 
The  time  has  come  for  the  truth  to  be  made  known.  You  gave 


signed 
youth, 
hoi)ed. 


492 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


i 


your  daughter  to  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  and  you  kept  his.  Hovi 
will  you  answt^r  to  God  and  man  for  that  ?" 

'riicre  had  been  a  time  when  Mrs.  Vavasor  would  have  had 
pluck  enough  to  reply  as  Claverhouse  replied  to  the  same 
ciucstion  of  the  Covenanter's  widow  :  "To  man  I  can  answer 
woll  enough,  and  (lod  1  will  take  in  my  own  hand  ;"  but  thaf 
time  was  past.  She  sank  back  in  her  seat,  her  hands  over  hej 
eyes,  cowering,  shrinking,  like  the  guilty  creature  she  was,  before 
him — not  daring  to  meet  that  stern,  terrible  face.  The  strange 
adventure,  hor  nervous  fear,  the  darkness,  the  solitude — all  were 
telling  upon  her  as  such  things  tell  upon  women. 

"It  was  rather  a  hackneyed  plan  of  vengeance" — the  cold, 
(luict,  pitiless  tones  of  Henry  Otis  went  on — "taken  second- 
hand from  one  of  your  favorite  three-volume  novels,  and  quite 
un\vt)rthy  the  originality  and  inventive  genius  you  have  displayed 
in  later  years.  You  make  no  attempt  to  deny  it,  I  see  ;  that  at 
least  is  wise." 

"  1  do  deny  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Vavasor,  plucking  up  courage 
from  sheer  desperation  at  last.  "I  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  of  How  dare  you  bring  me  here  ?  What  is  the 
meaning  of  this  infamous  plot?  How  dare  you  detain  nie  in 
this  dreadful  house?  Let  me  go,  Henry  Otis,  or  it  will  be 
worse  for  you." 

She  rose  up  and  faced  him — at  bay — her  face  gray  with  fear, 
and  a  hunted  light  in  her  black  eyes. 

"  How  dare  you  write  me  that  letter  ! — how  dare  you  sign 
that  name  ! — how  dare  you  bring  me  all  the  way  from  Paris  to 
— to  meet — " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  and 
burst  inyo  a  passion  of  tears — tears  of  rage,  of  fright,  of  disap- 
jjointment.  'i'he  old  love  for  the  handsome,  high-born  lover 
of  her  youth  lived  yet  in  her  heart — that  battered,  world-hard- 
ened heart  had  throbbed  with  the  purest  rapture  it  had  felt  for 
years  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him  once  more  ;  and  it  was  bitter 
— bitter  to  her  beyond  all  telling  to  have  it  end  like  this, 

"If  there  be  a  law  to  punish  such  treachery  as  this,  you  shall 
be  punished,  Henry  Otis,  when  I  go  free,"  she  passionately 
cried. 

"  '  When  you  go  free,'  "  Mr.  Otis  repeated  ;  "  ah,  but  you 
are  not  going  free  !  I  don't  do  my  work  in  that  bungling  way. 
As  cleverly  as  you  plotted  to  entrap  Katherine  Dangerfield  six 
years  ago,  so  I  have  entrapped  you  to-night.  Pause  a  moment 
and  think.    No  one — not  a  soul — knows  you  are  here,  and  I 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


493 


'Pthis.    How 

fiild  have  had 

to  the  same 

Y  can  answer 

id  ; "  but  thaf 

mds  over  hej 

ie  was,  before 

The  strange 

|ide — all  \si:^xQ 

"—-the  cold, 

ken  second- 

■Js,  and  qin'te 

ive  displayed 

see ;  that  at 

"P   courage 
^hatyou  are 
\'hat  is    the 
letain  nie  in 
kr  it  will  be 

ay  with  fear, 

ire  you  sign 
om  Paris  to 

hands,  and 
it,  of  disap. 
•born  lover 
ivorld-hard- 
had  felt  for 

vvas  bitter 

this. 

i»  you  shall 

issionately 

,  but  you 
jli  ng  way. 
srfield  six 
1  moment 
?re,  and  I 


presume  you  have  left  no  friends  behind  in  Paris  who  will  trou- 
ble themselves  greatly  to  make  search  for  you.  Women  like 
you  make  no  friends.  This  house,  as  you  have  seen,  is  utteily 
lonely  and  isolated — it  is  reputed  to  be  haunted — no  one 
comes  here  who  can  possibly  avoid  it.  h."-^  here  you  stay — 
though  it  shall  be  weeks,  months — until  you  make  a  full  con- 
fetision.  Make  it  to-night,  and  you  go  free — refuse,  and  you 
are  locked  up  until  you  do.  Here  are  pen,  ink,  and  paper — 
dictate  your  confession  and  I  will  write  it  down." 

She  sat  mute,  dogged,  her  hands  clenched,  her  lips  shut,  her 
ey  is  glittering. 

''  What  do  you  know  ?  "  she  asked,  sullenly. 

•*  Enough  to  send  you  to  Newgate.  That  when  Lord  Ruys- 
land  came  to  your  cottage  to  claim  his  child  a  year  after  its 
mother's  death,  you  gave  \\\\w  yours  and  kept  his.  You  kept 
the  infant  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  and  gave  the  Earl  of  Ruysland 
John  ILirman's  daughter.  John  Harman's  daughter  lives  in 
hixuiy  at  Scarswood  Park  to-night,  and  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  the 
real  Lady  Cecil,  is — where^  Mrs.  Harman  ?  Sold  like  a  slave 
to  strangers  in  her  third  year — strangers  who  loved  her,  lit- 
tle thanks  to  you.  Still  your  vengeance  against  her  dead 
mother,  who  had  robbed  you  of  your  lover,  was  not  sated.  On 
her  wedding  day  you  came  forward  and  told  the  world  she  was  not 
the  daughter  of  Sir  John  Dangerfield — you  took  care  not  to  tell 
whose  daughter  she  was — you  robbed  her  of  her  husband,  home, 
and  name — you  killed  her  as  surely  as  ever  nmrderess  killed 
her  victim.  That'xs,  what  I  know.  The  story  Lord  Ruysland  shall 
hear,  whether  or  no  you  confess.  The  law  of  England  would 
force  your  story  from  you  if  I  gave  you  over  to  it.  I  chose, 
however,  to  take  the  law  in  my  own  hand.  Out  of  this  house 
you  never  go  alive  until  you  have  confessed." 

She  listened  to  him,  her  face  settling,  sullen  and  dark. 

"I'll  never  confess.  I  say  again  1  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  of.  I  gave  Lord  Ruysland  his  daughter — mine  died. 
The  child  Sir  John  Dangerfield  adopted  was  my — my  cousin's 
daughter  ;  I  had  an  old  grudge  against  her  mother.  I  say  again, 
Henry  Ods,  let  me  go,  or  it  will  be  worse  for  you.  Threats  and 
illegal  punishment  are  Newgate  matteis,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
Let  me  go,  or  I'll — " 

What  Mrs.  Vavasor  meant  to  do  Henry  Otis  was  never  des- 
tined to  hear.  The  words  seemed  to  freeze  upon  her  lips — hei 
face  slowly  blanched  to  the  ashen  hue  of  death — her  eyes  di- 
lated with  some  great  horror.     Henry  Otis  followed  her  glance. 


494 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


;  1 

1 

i 
1 

li 


1  ii 


li 


OKI  Hannah  had  quitted  the  room  unobserved  some  seconds 
before,  leaving  the  door  ajar.  Through  this  door,  withouf 
sound  of  any  kind,  a  figure  had  gUdcd.  It  stood  now  just 
within  the  doorway,  perfectly  still,  its  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 
It  wore  a  dress  of  some  white  summery  stuff,  its  long,  loose 
hair  fell  over  its  shoulders,  its  face  was  perfectly  white,  its  eyes 
cold  and  fixed,  its  arms  hung  loose  by  its  side. 

So,  as  in  years  past  she  had  a  hundred  ti.nes  seen  Katherine 
I)an<;erfield  living,  she  saw  her  once  more  to-night  dead.  Dead 
surely — and  this  was  her  ghost. 

She  uttered  no  cry,  no  sound.  Slowly,  step  by  step,  she  re- 
coiled, that  utter  horror  on  her  face,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  mo- 
ti(;nless  figure,  until  the  wall  barred  her  progress. 

^^Look/"  she  whispered,  in  an  awful  voice.     *^ Look/" 

"I  jok  where?"  Henry  Otis  repeated,  stoically.  "I  don't 
see  anything." 

"  At  the  door  !  "  still  in  the  same  awful  whisper — "  see — it  is 
—  Katherine  Dangerfield  !     Look  1" 

"Well,"  Mr.  Otis  responded  testily,  "  I  am  looking  and  I 
don't  see  anything.  You're  dreaming,  Mrs.  Vavasor.  Kathe- 
rine Dangerfield  is  in  Castlefoid  churchyard,  is  she  not  ?  She 
can't  be  at  Bracken  Hollow.  Come  I  look  at  me,  and  leave  off 
staring  in  that  ghastly  way  at  nothing." 

She  turned  her  eyes  slowly  upon  him  for  an  instant,  then 
they  moved  back  as  if  beyond  all  control  of  hers  to  the  door. 
Tiie  specter  had  vanished.  And  Mrs.  Vavasor,  with  a  gasping 
cry,  fell  down  fainting  in  a  heap. 

"Artistically  done.  You're  the  most  useful  of  ghosts,  Kath- 
erine," Mr.  Otis  cried,  springing  up.  "  Come  in,  pi  ay,  and  fetch 
salts  and  cold  water.  I  think  she'll  need  no  urging  to  tell 
now." 

Miss  Herncastle  came  forward,  a  smile  on  her  face — the  salts 
in  her  hand. 

"  1  don't  think  she  will.  It  was  quite  as  much  as  1  could  do 
to  preserve  my  gravity,  standing  stock  still  there  under  her 
horrified  gaze.  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  laughed  outright,  and 
spoiled  the  tableau  if  you  had  not  called  her  attention  off.  Yes, 
1  think  we  shall  have  the  truth  now." 

"  You  had  better  go — she  is  coming  round,"  said  Mr.  Otis,  as 
the  widow's  eyelids  fluttered ;  "  vanish,  Katherine,  and  send 
Hannah  here.     You'll  hear  all  in  the  passage." 

Hannah  re-entered — Miss  Herncastle  disaj^peared.  Mrs. 
Vavasor's  black  eyes  opened  to  the  light.     She  started  up — 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


some  seconds 
I  door,  withoiif 
|ood  now  just 
11  on  vacancy, 
[its  Jong,  loose 
j  white,  iiseycs 

-en  Katherine 
[t  dead.    Dead 

step,  she  re- 
ptl  on  the  nio. 

Look  /  " 

'y-    "I  don't 

*•— "  see— it  is 

'oking  and  I 

^'ior.      Kathe- 

icnot?     She 

and  leave  off 

instant,  then 
to  the  door, 
'til  a  gas])ing 

r'losts,  Kath- 
ly,  and  fetch 
'g'ng  to  tell 

:e — the  salts 

'  1  could  do 
under  her 
utright,  and 
inoff.  Yes, 

ff-  Otis,  as 
and   send 

ed.     Mrs. 
rted  up-^ 


495 


memory  returning  with  consciousness — and  grasped  the  arm  of 
Henry  Otis. 

•'  1  las  she  gone  ?  "  Her  eyes  went  wildly  to  the  door.  "  Yes, 
I  tell  you  I  saw  her — Katherine — as  plainly  as  I  ever  saw  her 
in  my  life.  Mr.  Otis,  for  (iod's  sake  take  me  away — don't  leave 
mc  or  I  shall  go  raving  mad." 

"  1  shall  take  you  away,  and  I  shall  not  leave  you  a  moment 
alone,  if  you  will  speak  the  truth." 

"Yes — yes,  1  will.  I'll  do  anything — tell  anything,  only 
stay  with  me  for  the  love  of  Heaven.  1  would  rather  die  than 
see  her  again." 

She  cowered  down  into  her  chair,  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands,  and  in  a  sort  of  gas|)ing  whisper  told  her  story. 

"  I  confess  it  all,"  Mrs.  Vavasor  began  ;  *'  I  don't  know  how 
you  have  found  it  out,  but  it  is  true,  every  word.  I  did  change 
the  children.  I  hated  the  Countess  of  Ruysland  ;  but  for  her 
J  would  have  been  Lionel  Cardanell's  wife.  I  married  John 
Harman,  but  I  despised  him.  Poor,  weak  fool,  I  was  glad 
when  he  died.  She  gave  me  money,  she  gave  me  presents, 
and  I  took  them  all,  and  hated  her  more  every  day.  She 
wasn't  happy  with  her  husband — that  was  some  comfort.  She 
was  jealous — she  had  a  furious  temper;  Katherine  inherited 
it,  you  may  remember."  She  shivered  as  she  pronounced  the 
name.  *'  My  baby  was  a  month  old  the  night  she  ran  away 
from  the  earl  in  a  fit  of  fury  and  came  to  me.  I  didn't  care 
for  the  child ;  I  always  disliked  children  j  I  used  to  wish  if 
might  die.  It  was  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  I  hated  trouble  ; 
and  it  looked  like  John  Harman.  Why  should  I  care  for  it  ? 
She  came  to  me  ;  she  thought  I  had  forgotten  and  forgiven, 
and  was  her  friend.  She  didn't  know  me,  you  see.  That 
night  her  baby  was  born — a  girl,  too.  Next  morning  she  was 
dead.  She  died  in  my  arms,  in  my  poor  cottage,  without  hus- 
band or  friend  near  her.  That  would  have  satisfied  most 
women — it  didn't  satisfy  me.  They  came  and  took  her  away. 
The  earl  told  me  to  keep  and  nu:se  the  child — who  so  fit  as  1  ? 
I  don't  believe  he  ever  looked  at  it.  He  didn't  much  care  for 
his  wife,  but  the  manner  of  her  death  was  a  shock  and  a 
scandal.     They  buried  her,  and  he  went  away. 

"  It  was  then  that  the  plan  of  changing  the  children  occurred 
to  me.  Some  people  believe  the  spirits  in  Heaven  hear  and 
see  and  watch  over  their  loved  ones  on  earth.  No  doubt  the 
Countess  of  Ruysland  was  in  Heaven — could  a  lady  of  her 
rank  go  anywhere  else  ?    Well,  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  let 


496 


THE  LAST  LINK. 


?;>'»•>. 


her  see  her  daughter  growing  up  in  poverty  and  obscurity,  and 
John  Harman's  in  rank  and  hixury.  His  lordship  paid  me 
well ;  I  sold  out  Harman's  business  and  left  the  town,  where  I 
and  the  children  were  known.  I  went  to  live  in  a  village  some 
thirty  miles  away,  where  the  fraud  could  be  carried  on  in 
safety.  I  took  no  especial  care  of  either  of  them,  but  they 
grew  and  thrived  in  spite  of  that.  My  daughter  had  brown 
eyes  and  flaxen  hair,  and  was  small  and  delicate-looking — much 
the  prettier  of  the  two.  The  earl's  daughter  had  gray  eyes  and 
fair  hair,  and  was  large  for  a  child  of  two  years.  She  had  her 
mother's  '  omper  and  her  mother's  will  j  mine  was  one  of  the 
gentlest  creatures  that  ever  was  born;  I  called  the  Earl's 
daughter  Katherine.  I  called  mine  Cecil,  as  Lord  Ruysland 
had  desired  his  daughter  to  be  named.  I  was  well  paid,  but  I 
grew  tired  to  death  of  taking  care  of  them  and  vegetating  in  a 
stujiid  village.     I  wrote  to  Lord  Ruysland  to  come  for  his  child. 

"  He  came,  and  I  gave  him  mine.  I  did  not  let  him  see  the 
other  at  all ;  I  told  him  my  little  girl  was  ailing,  and  he  took  the 
other  away  totally  unsuspecting.  Then  I  sold  off  everything 
and  went  to  France,  taking  little  Kathie  with  me.  The  col- 
lision in  which  I  was  badly  hurt  followed — the  child  escaped. 
In  the  hospital  Colonel  Dangerfield  came  to  see  me  ;  he  thought 
I  was  [)oor,  and  I  did  not  undeceive  him.  His  only  daughter 
had  been  ins<^antly  killed — he  offered  to  adopt  little  Kathie  in 
jier  stead,  and  I  closed  with  the  offer  at  once.  I  never  saw 
her  again  until,  under  the  name  of  Mrs.  Vavasor,  I  came  to 
Scarswood  Park,  and  met  her  as  Sir  John's  heiress. 

"  I  solemnly  swear  that  the  young  girl  who  was  'cnown  as 
Katherine  Dangerfield  was  in  reaUty  the  Lady  Cecil  Clive, 
only  child  of  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Ruysland.  The  person 
who  now  bears  that  title  is  my  daughter,  christened  Katherine 
llarman.  I  will  swear  this  in  any  court  of  law.  I  changed 
them  out  of  revenge  upon  the  late  Lady  Ruysland. 

"(Signed)  Harriet  Harman." 

The  wretched  woman  wrote  her  name,  old  Hannah  and 
Henry  Otis  affixed  theirs  as  witnesses.  He  folded  up  the  doc- 
ument, superscribed  it  "  Confession  of  Harriet  Harman,"  and 
placed  it  in  his  breast-pocket.  She  sat  watching  every  motion 
with  terrified  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  going  to  place  it  in  die  hands  of  Lord  Ruysland  be 
tvveen  this  and  to-morrow  night.     The  rank  and  name  your 


HUNTED  DOWN, 


497 


daughter  has  usurped  for  two-and-twenty  years,  shall  be  taken 
from  her  before  the  expiration  of  four-and-twenty  hours." 

"  It  was  no  fault  of  hers,"  the  guilty  woman  said  with  trem- 
bling lips. 

"  You  made  Lord  Riiysland's  daughter  pay  the  penalty  of 
her  mother's  actions — yours  shall  pay  the  penalty  of  hers. 
For  you,"  Mr.  Otis  arose,  "  Lord  Ruysland  shall  deal  with 
you  as  he  sees  fit." 

She  started  to  her  feet  and  caught  him  as  he  was  turning 
away. 

"  Take  me  away  from  this  horrible  house — now,  at  once. 
You  promised,  you  know.  Do  anything  you  like,  only  take 
me  away." 

"Not  to  night,"  he  answered,  coldly.  "It  is  impossible. 
You  would  make  your  escape,  and  that  I  can't  allow.  Six 
years  ago  you  had  your  day — this  is  mine.  The  mercy  you 
showed  Katherine  Dangerfield  then  shall  be  meted  out  to  you 
now.  Don't  be  afraid — you  shall  not  be  left  alone.  You 
shall  have  a  light.  Hannah,  take  her  up  to  the  rooiu  prepared 
for  her,  and  remain  with  her  all  night." 

He  drew  himself  from  her  grasp,  and  left  Jhe  room.  He 
heard  her  cry  of  terror  and  despair  as  he  went  out.  Miss 
Herncastle  still  stood  in  the  passage.  He  took  her  hand  and 
led  her  into  another  room,  and  gave  her  the  paper. 

"  The  world  shall  know  you  as  you  are  at  last,"  he  said — 
"  shall  give  you  the  name  you  should  have  borne  from  your 
birth.  Let  me  be  the  first  to  call  you  by  it."  He  lifted  her 
hand  to  his  lips.     "  Lady  Cecil  Clive." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


HUNTED   DOWN. 


T  was  very  early  on  the  morning  of  the  ensuing  day — 
so  early  that  the  rosy  spears  of  sunrise  were  but  just 
glancing  through  the  tall  firs  and  waving  brake  around 
Bracken  Hollow, — when  a  loud,  authoritative  knock 

aroused  the  inmates  of  the  lonely  old  house  from  their  slumbers. 

In  five  minutes,  old  Hannah  was  up  and  dressed,  and  in  the 

room  of  her  young  mistress. 


) 


^--1 


498 


HUNTED  DOWN. 


Katherine  (let  us  call  her  by  the  old  nan^.e)  had  sprung  from 
her  bed  also  as  that  authoritative  knock  resounded  through  the 
house. 

"  It  must  be  Henry  Otis — it  can  be  no  one  else  at  this  hour. 
Go  open  the  door,  Hannah,  and  let  them  in,  whoever  they  may 
be." 

"  15ut  my  dear — " 

"  There  is  nothing  lo  fear,  whether  it  be  friend  or  foe.  If 
they  do  not  come  to  me  I  shall  go  to  them.  The  power  is 
mine  now,  and  the  victory.  Before  the  sun  sets,  Harriet  Har- 
man's  confession  shall  be  in  the  hands  of  my  Lord  of  Ruysland. 
They  shall  learn,  one  and  all,  who  the  desp'.sed  governess 
whom  they  have  turned  from  their  doors  is  to  their  cost." 

"  And  then  ?  "  old  Hannah  said. 

'•Ah!  And  then —  'Sufficient  unto  the  day,'  etc.  Go 
oi)en  the  door,  Hannah — there  is  the  knock  again  ;  and  on  my 
word,  whoever  the  gentleman  is,  he  knocks  commandingly." 

Haimah  went.  She  flung  open  the  door  and  stood  con- 
fronted by  a  tall  man,  with  a  dark,  handsome,  stern-looking 
face,  and  an  unmistakably  military  uir. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Miss  Herncastle,"  this  gentleman  began,  with 
perfect  abruptness;  "  I  know  that  she  is  here." 

"  Who  are  you,  sir  ?  "  old  Hannah  demanded,  with  equal 
sternness  ;  "and  by  what  right  do  you  come  at  such  a  time  of 
morning  as  this,  routing  decent  folks  out  of  their  beds  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  O'Donnell.  I  am  Miss  Herncastle's  friend, 
and  I  have  come  to  do  her  a  service  v/hile  there  is  yet  time. 
Before  two  hours  it  may  be  too  late.  Give  her  this,  I  entreat 
vou,  and  tell  her  I  must  see  her." 

"He  says  it  as  though  he  were  a  king,"  thought  old  Hannah. 
*'  He  looks  grand  enough  and  noble  enough  for  any  king. 
O'Donnell  ?  Why,  he's  the  Irish  officer  who  found  her  out — 
that  she's  most  afraid  of" 

She  stood  irresolute,  holding  the  card  he  had  given  her,  and 
lo'^king  angrily  and  doubtfully  from  hin  to  it. 

I  don't  know  what  you  want  here — >vhat  you  mean  by 
coniuig  here.  You're  no  friend  of  Miss  Herncastle's — I  know 
tJiai.  You're  the  man  that  followed  her — that  has  been  her 
enemy  and  pursuer  from  the  first.  How  dare  you  call  yoursell 
her  friend  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,"  O'Donnell  exclaimed  impatiently,  "I  am  her 
friend  ;  I  want  to  serve  her  if  she  will  let  me.  She  has  ren- 
dered herself  amenable  to  the  law ;  she  is  an  object  of  suspi- 


HUNTED  DOWN, 


499 


sprung  from 
fd  through  the 

[e  at  this  hour, 
fever  they  may 

id  or  foe.     If 
frhe  power  is 
Harriet  Har- 
'  of  Ruysland. 
Jed   governess 
ir  cost." 

ly,'  etc.      Go 
1 ;  and  on  my 
nandingly." 
d  stood  con- 
stern-looking 

m  began,  with 

J,  with  equal 
'Uch  a  time  of 
beds  ?  " 
isMe's  friend, 
is  yet  time, 
lis,  I  entreat 

old  Hannah.    ' 
'I*  any  king, 
id  her  out — 

^en  her,  and 

>u  mean  by 
-'s— I  know 
s  been  her 
:all  yourseli 

"  I  am  her 
le  has  ren- 
-t  of  suspi. 


cion  ;  the  officers  are  on  her  track.  If  you  are  her  friend,  you 
will  give  her  that  card  at  once." 

"  Yes,  Hannah,  give  i*.  to  me.  I'm  not  afraid  of  Captain 
O'Donnell.     Let  me  see  what  he  has  to  say." 

It  was  Katherine  herself — in  slippers  and  dressing-gown — 
her  brown  hair  undone,  rippling  in  the  old  girlish  way  over  her 
shoulders.  In  that  white  neglige,  with  hair  unbound  and  its 
natural  color,  she  looked,  with  the  rose-flush  of  the  August  sun- 
rise upon  her,  younger,  fairer,  fresher  than  he  had  ever  seen 
her  before. 

She  took  no  notice  of  him.  She  received  the  card  from 
Hannah  gravely — and  gravely  examined  it.  Beneath  his  name 
in  pencil  was  written  : 

"  I  know  that  you  are  here.  I  come  as  your  friend.  If  you 
have  any  regard  for  yourself  you  will  see  me  at  once." 

She  looked  up  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him  v/ith  a  smile — 
a  smile  that  had  something  of  the  old  brightness,  the  old  saucy 
defiance  of  Katherine  Dangerfield. 

"  Good-morning,  Captain  O'Donnell.  My  friends  are  so 
few  and  far  between  at  present,  that  it  would  be  a  thousand 
pities  to  refuse  an  audience  to  one  of  them.  But  you  my 
friend  !  Isn't  that  rather  a  new  role  for  the  gallant  Captain  of 
Chasseurs  ?  " 

She  led  the  way  into  the  bare-looking  apartment,  where  last 
night  Harriet  Harman  had  made  her  confession,  and  pointed 
to  a  chair.  There  was  a  grace,  a  triumjoh  about  her  he  had 
never  seen  before — the  whole  expression  of  her  face  was 
changed.  Where  was  the  sad,  somber  face  of  Miss  Herncastle 
now  ?     A  sort  of  proud  triumph  lit  all  the  face  before  him. 

He  accepted  the  chair  only  to  lean  across  its  wooden  back 
and  look  at  her.  She  stood  where  the  golden  sunshine  fell 
fullest  upon  her — her  tall  form  looking  taller  and  more  classic 
than  ever  in  her  trailing  white  robe,  a  crimson  cord  for  her 
girdle.  The  brown  hair  was  swept  off  forehead  and  temples, 
showing  the  scar  on  the  left  plainly,  and  adding  to  the  nobility 
of  her  face.  The  black  had  been  washed  from  the  eyebrows — 
altogether  she  was  changed  almost  out  of  knowledge.  There 
was  a  smile  on  her  lips,  a  light  in  her  eyes,  aglow  on  her  cheeks 
that  transfigured  her.  The  hour  of  her  victory  had  come  j 
she  stood  before  him 

"  A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair." 

Yes,  fair  in  this  moment,  if  never  fair  before. 


500 


HUNTED  DOWN. 


II 


*  '    : 


"Will  Captain  O'Donnell — my  friend — who  has  hunted  m« 
down  from  fust  to  last — speak  ?  What  is  it  that  has  taken  you 
out  of  your  bed  at  this  uncivilized  hour,  and  brought  you  to 
Bracken  Hollow,  and  me  ?  " 

The  1  mging  tone  of  her  voice,  the  meaning  sparkle  of  eye 
and  smile,  confounded  him. 

"  It  is  so  easy  to  be  mista':en,"  she  went  on,  still  smiling.  "  1 
confess  among  the  few,  the  very  few  I  count  as  my  friends,  your 
ivame  is  the  last  1  should  ever  dream  of  adding  to  the  list.  But 
then  strongly  marked  characters  have  strongly  original  ways 
of  proving  their  likes  and  dislikes.  Hunting  me  down  may 
be  your  way  of  proving  your  friendship.  What  is  it  Captain 
O'Donnell  has  come  here  at  six  in  the  morning  to  say  ?" 

"  To  say  you  are  in  danger — to  say  your  game  is  up,  to  say 
all  is  known — that  the  police  are  on  your  track,  that  this  very 
day — or  to-morrow  at  furthest,  they  will  be  here.  To  warn 
you  for  the  last  time." 

"  For  the  last  time — to  warn  me  of  what?" 

"  To  fly — I  repeat,  all  is  known — all." 

"  What  does  all  comprise  ?     May  I  ask  you  to  explain  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  a  detective  has  been  on  your  track  from  the 
hour  you  quitted  Scarswood,  that  by  day  and  night  you  have 
been  watched,  thatjv^w  are  known  as  the  Gaston  Dantreewho, 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  has  won  an  enormous  sum  from  Sir  Peter 
Dangerfield  at  cards— -that  the  real  Gaston  Dantree  is  shut  up 
here  at  Bracken  Hollow — an  idiot,  and  has  bca  for  years.  Ah, 
you  feel  that.     I  repeat — all  is  known — all." 

The  smile  faded  from  her  lips,  the  old  hard  expression  looked 
at  liim  out  of  her  gray  eyes. 

"  A  detective  on  my  track.  I  did  not  dream  of  that  indeed. 
And  to  whom  am  I  indebted  for  that  delicate  attention  ?  To 
ni)  friend,  Captain  O'Donnell,  of  course." 

"  No,  Miss  Herncastle,  not  in  this  instance.  To  the  Right 
Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruysland." 

A  shadow  came  over  her  face,  a  gray,  somber  shadow.  She 
sat  down  suddenly  with  an  altered  expression. 

"The  Earl  of  Ruysland,"  she  repeated.  "What  had  I 
(lone  to  him  ?  Ah,  I  understand — the  law  calls  upon  every 
honest  man  to  hunt  down  a  rogue.  And  the  Earl  of  Ruysland 
has  set  a  dttcctive  on  my  track.  Is  this  all  his  noble  lord.ship 
has  discovered,  or  is  there  something  else?" 

"  This  is  all  he  has  absolutely  discov.^red,  but  there  is  some« 
thuig  else.     He  strongly  suspects  the  death  and  burial  of  Kath 


•-^> 


has  hunted  m« 
|t  has  taken  you 
proiight  you  to 

sparkle  of  eye 

ill  smih'ng.  « i 
'ly  friends,  j^/^,. 
o  the  h'st.  Buf 
original  ways 
ne  down  may 

/t  is  it  Captain 
to  say  ?  " 

'e  is  up,  to  say 
>  that  this  very 
ne.     To  warn 


>  explain  ?  " 
track  from  the 
^ight  you  have 
Dantree  wlio, 
Tom  Sir  Peter 
■ee  is  shut  up 
3r  years.    Ah, 

ession  looked 

'  that  indeed, 
"ntion  ?     To 

^o  the  Right 

adow.     She 

'hat  had  I 
upon  every 
'f  -Ruysland 
Jle  lordship 

re  is  some. 
alofKath 


HUNTED  DOWN. 


501 


erine  Dangerfield  *-o  be  bogus,  and  Miss  Herncastle  and  Kath- 
erine  Dangerfield  to  be  one  and  the  same." 

"  Was  it  acting  on  this  suspicion  that  you  went  up  to  London 
and  nearly  frightened  poor  Mrs.  Otis  to  death  ?  " 

"  I  was  acting  on  no  suspicion — I  rarely  act  on  that.  I  was 
acting  on  certainty.  I  knew  the  grave  in  Castleford  churchyard 
to  be  a  fraud — the  tombstone  lying  even  more  than  tombstones 
usually  lie.     I  knew  that  grave  held  an  empty  coffin." 

"  May  I  ask  how  ?  " 

"  In  the  simplest  manner  possible.  I  employed  a  resur- 
rectionist, and  I  opene-l  the  grave.  We  raised  the  coffin,  opened 
that,  and  found,  as  I  told  you — nothing." 

"  You  did  this  ?  " 

"  I  did  this." 

She  sat  and  looked  at  him — wonder,  not  unmixed  with  a 
species  of  amusement  and  admiration,  in  her  face. 

"  And  yet  you  call  yourself  my  friend.  Captain  O'Donnell, 
you're  an  extraordinary  man." 

*'  No  ;  I  don't  see  it,"  he  answered,  coolly.  **  It  wasn't  any- 
thing very  extraordinary.  From  the  hour  I  discovered  your 
identity  with  tho  New  York  actress  my  suspicions  were  aroused. 
You  had  never  given  up  the  stage  and  buried  yourself  alive  at 
Scarswood  in  the  capacity  of  governess  without  some  powerful 
latent  motive.  That  motive  I  confess  I  felt  curious  to  discover. 
Then  you  made  love  to  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna — I  beg  your  par- 
don— permitted  him  to  fall  in  love  with  yoiiy  Katherine 
smiled  once  more.  "As  Sir  Arthur  had  long  before  been 
signed,  sealed,  and  delivered  over  to  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  and  he 
seemed  powerless  to  help  himself,  I  felt  called  upon  to  help 
hiin.  He  is  my  friend,  you  know,  so  also  is  his  affianced  wife. 
Then  you  played  ghost — oh  yes  you  did,  Lord  Ruysland  saw 
yon — and  frightened  Sir  Peter  to  the  verge  of  insanity.  Alto- 
gether you  were  too  dangerous  a  sort  of  person  to  be  allowed 
to  go  on  without  a  short  pull-up  from  some  one.  Destiny,  I 
supi)ose,  set  me  .on  your  track — I  didn't  care  about  hunting 
you  down,  as  you  call  it,  and  I  gave  you  fair  warning.  You 
scorned  all  I  could  say;  so,  as  a  last  resource,  I  went  to  Lon- 
don to  induce  Mr.  Otis  to  cast  his  influence  into  the  scale. 
You  have  proved  more  desperate  and  more  dangerous  than  I 
supi)osed.  Sir  Peter  is  as  nearly  mad  as  it  is  i)ossible  to  be, 
out  of  a  straight-jacket,  over  his  losses.  For  the  last  time  I 
come  to  warn  you — you  are  accused  of  cheating  at  cards,  of 
placing  a  pistol  at  Sir  Peter's  head,  and  threatening  his  life." 


502 


HUNTED  DOWN. 


■ 


Again  his  listener  smiled  as  she  recalled  Sir  Peter's  ghastly  face 
of  fright,  "  It  is  an  actionable  matter  to  carry  deadly  weapons, 
and  threaten  the  lives  of  her  Majesty's  liege  subjects.  Then 
you  have  worn  male  attire — you  have  secreted  a  dangerous 
lunatic,  to  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood ;  in  short,  the  list  of 
your  evil  deeds  is  appalling.  The  police  of  Castleford,  armed 
with  a  search-warrant,  will  be  here  to-day  or  to-morrow  at  the 
furthest  to  search  the  premises — you  will  be  arrested,  impris- 
oned, and  tried.  Miss  Herncastle,  Miss  Dangerfield, — I  beg  of 
you  avoid  this.  Fly  while  there  is  yet  time,  and  save  your- 
self." 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly — earnestly.  "  Captain 
O'Donnell,  I  wonder  why — I  cannot  understand  why  you  should 
take  the  trouble  to  come  here  and  say  this.  You  dislike  me 
with  a  cordiality  there  is  no  mistaking — you  have  shown  me 
very  Httle  quarter  hitherto;  what  object  have  you  in  all  this? 
.Why  should  you  endeavor  to  save  a  woman  you  hold  in  aver- 
sion and  contempt?  a  woman,  in  short,  whom  you  hate?" 

*'  Whom  I  hate  ! "  he  repeated  quietly.  **  Since  when  have 
I  told  you  I  hated  you  ?  I  do  not  hate  you — very  far  from  it ; 
and  if  I  held  you  in  aversion  and  contempt  I  certainly  should 
not  take  the  trouble  of  coming  here  to  warn  you.  I  have  heard 
Katherine  Dangerfield's  story — a  strange,  sad  story  ;  and  I  be- 
lieve her,  even  in  this  hour,  to  be  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning.  She  has  made  one  great  mistake — she  has  taken 
retribution  in  her  own  weak  hand — she  has  forgotten  who  has  said 
'  Vengeance  is  mine ;  I  will  repay  ! '  I  believe  a  great  and 
generous  nature  has  been  warped.  Commonplace  women 
would  have  sunk  under  the  blow  ;  being  a  woman  of  genius  she 
has  risen  and  battled  desperately  with  fate.  And  when  a 
woman  does  that  she  fails ;  she  must  stoop  to  cunning,  to  plot- 
ting, to  guilt.  Katherine  Dangerfield,  I  pity  you — from  my  soul 
I  do  ;  and  with  my  whole  heart  I  stand  before  you  your  friend. 
It  is  not  too  late  yet ;  pause,  while  there  is  yet  time,  on  the 
road  you  are  treading,  and  go  back." 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  earnestness,  the  generous  glow 
of  his  face,  the  friendly  warmth  of  his  tone.  She  had  turned 
away  from  him  and  was  looking  out  at  the  golden  morning  sky. 

"  Go  back  ! "  she  repeated  bitterly.  "  Is  there  ever  any  go- 
ing back  in  this  world  ?  Six  years  ago  I  might  have  listened  ; 
to-day  it  is  too  late." 

"  It  is  never  too  late  while  life  remains.  It  is  only  the  turn- 
ing point  in  your  destiny.     As  yet  you  have  been  guilty  only  of 


HUNTED  DOWN". 


503 


follies— not  of  crimes.  Katharine  " — her  face  flushed  all  over 
as  he  pronounced  the  name.  She  turned  to  him  a  sudden,  sur- 
prised, grateful  glance.  "  Katherme,"  he  held  out  his  hand, 
"  for  what  I  have  said  and  done  in  the  past  forgive  me.  Let 
me  be  your  friend,  your  brother,  from  this  hour.  I  pity  you,  I 
aduiire  you.  You  have  been  wonderfully  brave  and  clever. 
Lay  down  youi  arms — give  up  the  fight.  Which  of  us  can  bat- 
tle against  Fate  ?  Give  mo  your  hand—  give  me  your  promise. 
1  cannot,  I  ivill  not  leave  you  until  you  do." 

She  covei  ed  her  face  with  her  hands,  her  breast  heaving,  the 
color  burning  in  her  face,  moved  to  the  very  depths  of  her  soul, 
with  a  passion  of  which  he  did  not  dream. 

"  I  am  tai  .g  Rose  to  France,"  he  continued,  coming 
nearer,  his  voice  wonderfully  gentle.  "  Come  with  us — you 
will  be  safe  there.  You  have  been  sadly  wronged,  I  know ; 
but  life  deals  hardly  with  us  all.  You  know  my  sister's  story 
— you  know  how  her  youth  has  been  wrecked  by  the  same 
hand  that  blighted  yours,  l^et  that  be  a  bond  of  sympathy  be- 
tween you.  Come  with  us  to  France ;  the  friend  to  whom 
Rose  goes  will  also  shelter  you.  She  means  to  work  for  her 
living,  teaching  in  a  French  school ;  drudgery,  perhaps,  but  she 
insists  upon  it,  and  I  think  myself  labor  is  an  antidote  to  heart- 
break. Come,  Katherine — you  have  fought  long  and  well, 
and  nothing  has  come  of  it.     Give  it  up  and  come  with  Rose." 

Her  hands  dropped  from  her  face  ;  something  in  the  last 
words  seemed  to  rouse  her.     She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"And  nothing  has  come  of  it?"  she  repeated.  "That  is 
your  mistake.  Captain  O'Donnell.  Something  has  come  of  it- 
I  wonder  what  you  would  say  if  I  told  you — what  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  and  see." 

"  I  confess,"  she  went  on,  "  to  all  the  crimes  laid  to  my 
charge.  I  am  Katherine  Dangerfield  ;  I  have  been  buried  and 
risen  from  the  dead,  and  with  that  resurrection  my  nature 
seemed  to  change.  I  have  brooded  on  one  subject — my 
wrongs — until  I  believe  my  brain  has  turned.  I  fled  from  the 
house  of  my  true  and  loyal  friend,  Henry  Otis,  and  went  to 
America.  I  became  the  New  York  actress  you  so  cleverly  rec- 
ognized. From  New  York  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Otis.  I  told  him  if 
Gaston  Dantree  died,  to  bury  him  decently — if  he  lived,  to  fur- 
nish him  with  money  to  quit  England  ;  if  he  lived,  and  reason 
did  not  return;  as  he  feared,  to  send  him  to  Bracken  Hollow 
— not  to  an  asylum.  I  wanted  him  cared  for ;  I  had  heard 
horrible  stories  of  insane  asylums.     I  knew  Hannah  would  be 


504 


HUNTED  DOWN. 


M 


I 


good  to  him  for  my  sake.  When  all  hope  was  at  an  end,  Mrr 
Otis  obeyed,  and  for  nearly  five  years  poor  Gaston  Dantree 
has  been  the  ghost  of  Bracken  Hollow.  As  a  rule  he  is  quiet 
and  harmless,  but  there  are  times  when  his  cries  are  terrible, 
when  he  tries  to  escape  from  his  room.  He  has  to  be  watched 
unceasingly.  All  these  years  I  remained  in  the  New  World  I 
worked  hard  in  my  profession,  and  rose.  I  made  money  and  I 
hoarded  it  like  a  miser.  Day  and  night,  stronger  and  stronger 
with  each  year  grew  the  determination  to  return,  to  keep  my 
vow.  I  tell  you  I  believe  there  were  times  when  I  was  insane 
on  this  subject.  Death  alone  could  have  held  me  back.  I 
waited  patiently  while  burning  with  impatience  ;  I  worked  ;  I 
hoarded,  and  at  last  my  day  came.  I  returned  to  England  ;  i 
made  my  way  into  the  family  of  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield  j  my  re- 
venge had  begun. 

"  That,  as  you  know,  is  not  many  weeks  ago.  It  was  a  los- 
ing game  from  the  first — I  was  playing  to  lose.  I  knew  my  se- 
cret could  not  remain  undiscovered,  but  I  dared  all.  Fate  had 
taken  my  part  in  one  way.  I  had  a  double  motive  in  returning 
— one,  my  vengeance  on  him  ;  the  other,  to  discover  my  par- 
entage. I  had  a  clue  ;  and  strange  to  say,  in  working  out  one 
I  was  working  out  the  other.  You  know  what  followed — I 
played  ghost — Lord  Ruysland  was  right — and  terrified  the 
master  of  Scarswood  as  I  think  he  was  never  terrified  before. 
I  paid  midnight  visits  to  Bracken  Hollow ;  I  dared  not  go  in 
the  daytime.  You  remember  all  about  that,  no  doubt.  There 
was  an  unused  entrance  by  which  I  came  in  and  out.  I-ady 
Dangerfield  tyrannized  over  and  insulted  me  from  the  first ;  I 
have  rewarded  her,  I  think.  And  I  have  personated  Gaston 
Dantree,  and  won  Sir  Peter's  idolized -gold.  Why  I  perso- 
nated Dantree  1  hardly  know.  Sir  Peter  was  too  blind  to  recog- 
nize me,  and  the  whim  seized  me.  How  long  I  might  have 
gone  on,  how  it  would  have  ended  but  for  your  recognition  of 
me — your  suspicion  and  discoveries,  I  don't  know.  I  owe  you 
no  grudge  ;  you  were  doing  your  duty,  and  I  honor  you  for  it. 
For  Sir  Arthur,  you  need  not  have  been  so  much  afraid ;  it  was 
a  triumph  to  take  him  from  Lady  Cecil — to  anger  Lady  Dan- 
gerfield ;  but  bad  as  I  am,  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  base 
enough  to  marry  him,  even  if  he  had  asked  me.  He  had  never 
wionged  me,  and  I  only  waged  war  with  those  who  did." 

You  waged  war  with  Lady  Cecil  Clive,  in  taking  her  lover 
from  her,  and  she  certainly  never  wronged  you.  She  was  your 
friend  through  all." 


^''T*T"gg"'-S-'aiinTiw-mLwiiwjrj.»«j 


HUNTED  DOWN. 


505 


at  an  end,  Mit 
raston  Dan  tree 
Irule  he  is  quiet 
tes  are  terrible, 
to  be  watched 
New  World  I 
le  money  and  I 
;r  and  stronger 
n,  to  keep  my 
:n  I  was  insane 
Id  me  back.     I 
;  I  worked  ;  I 
to  England  ;  i 
erfield ;  my  re- 
It  was  a  los- 
I  knew  my  sp- 
all.    Fate  had 
ive  in  returning 
icover  my  par- 
'orking  out  one 
at  followed — I 
3   terrified   the 
:errified  before, 
lared  not  go  in 
doubt.    There 
nd  out.    I.ady 
)m  the  first ;  I 
>nated  Gaston 
Why  X  perso- 
blind  to  recog- 
I  might  have 
recognition  of 
"f-     I  owe  you 
lor  you  for  it. 
afraid ;  it  was 
er  Lady  Dan- 
'er  was   base 
Tie  had  never 
o  did." 
:ing  her  lover 
She  was  your 


The  hard  look  came  over  her  face  once  more,  a  hard  light 
in  her  large  eyes. 

*'Was  she?  In  your  eyes,  of  course,  Lady  Cecil  can  do  no 
evil.  But  what  if  1  told  you  she  had  done  nie  the  deepest,  the 
deadliest  wrong  of  all?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  1  don't  understand,"  he  spid,  a  little  coldly.  **  I  believe 
I,ady  Cecil  to  be  incapable  of  willfully  wronging  any  one.  And 
she  always  spoke  gently  of  you." 

She  leaned  her  forehead  on  her  hands,  and  pushed  back  her 
hair  with  a  long,  tired  sigh. 

"  What  a  mockery,  what  a  satire  it  all  is — the  world  and  the 
people  in  it  !  We  are  all  sinners,  but  I  wonder  what  I  have 
done,  that  my  life  should  be  so  accursed  !  Redmond  O'Don- 
ncU,  this  morning  I  felt  almost  happy — a  fierce,  triumphal  sort 
of  happiness — I  had  fought  a  long,  bitter  battle,  but  the  victory 
was  with  me  at  last.  Now,  if  I  could  lie  down  here  and  die, 
1  should  ask  no  greater  boon.  My  life  has  been  from  first  to 
last  a  dreary,  miserable  failure.  Oh,  God  !  I  want  to  do 
right.  My  life  has  been  bitter,  bitter,  bitter,  and  I  feel  as 
though  I  were  steeped  in  crime  to  the  lips.  If  1  could  only 
die  and  end  it  all  !  But  death  passes  the  guilty  and  miserable 
by,  and  takes  the  happy  and  the  good." 

Her  folded  arms  were  lying  on  the  table,  her  head  f'll  for- 
ward on  them  as  though  she  never  cared  to  lift  it  again.  l''roin 
first  to  last  she  had  been  a  creature  of  iiiipulse,  swayed  by  a 
passionate,  undisciplined  heart — a  ship  adrift  on  a  dark  sea, 
without  rudder  or  compass. 

"  There  have  been  days  in  my  life — in  the  years  that  are 
gone — ay,  in  the  weeks  that  I  have  spent  yonder  at  Scarswood 
—  when  1  have  held  the  laudanum  in  my  hand,  to  my  lips,  that 
would  have  ended  it  all.  But  I  did  not  dare  die, — such  wretches 
as  1  don't.  It  was  not  death  I  feared — but  ivJiat  comes  after. 
Captain  O'Donnell,"  she  lifted  her  haggard  eyes  and  looked  at 
him,  and  to  the  last  day  of  his  life  the  hopeless  despair  of  that 
face — the  hopeless  pathos  of  that  voice  haunted  him,  "what 
nmst  you  think  of  me?  What  a  lost,  degraded  creature  I  must 
be  in  your  sight." 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  a  compassion  such  as  he  had 
never  felt  for  any  human  being  before  stirring  his  heart. 

"  What  am  I  that  I  should  judge  ?  And  if  I  thought  so, 
would  I  ask  you  to  be  the  companion,  the  sister  of  my  sister  ? 
there  is  nothing  but  pity  for  you  in  my  heart — nothing.  Give 
23 


5o6 


HUNTED  DOWN. 


f/i 


!   i 


\\-  ., 


up  this  dark  and  dangerous  life,  and  be  true  to  yourself— to  the 
noble  nature  Heaven  has  given  you,  once  more." 

Siie  rose  up — her  hand  Lull  in  his,  a  sort  of  inspiration  shin- 
ing in  her  face. 

''1  will!"  she  answered.  "You — whom  I  thought  my 
enemy,  shall  save  me.  I  renounce  it — the  plotting — the  evil — 
the  revenge.  And  for  your  sake — for  the  love  you  bear  her,  I 
will  spare  hcr^ 

He  looked  at  her  in  mite  inquiry.  She  smiled,  drew  away 
her  hands,  and  resumed  her  -<eat. 

"You  c^o  not  understand.  See  here,  Captain  O'Donnell,  I 
told  you,  did  1  not,  my  second  object  in  returning  to  England 
was  to  discover  my  parentage  ?     Well,  I  have  discovered  it." 

"  You  have  ! "  lie  cried,  breathlessly. 

"  I  have  discovered  it.  My  father  lives,  and  the  daughter 
of  my  nurse  occupies  my  place  in  his  heart,  the  name  I  should 
bear.  It  is  a  very  old  story — changed  at  nurse — and  that  nurse 
has  confessed  all." 

"  You  have  done  this.  Then  I  congratulate  you  indeed ! 
You  will  go  to  your  father  at  once,  of  course  !  No  one,  believe 
me,  can  rejoice  at  this  more  sincerely  than  I." 

"  You  mistake.  I  will  never  gj.  This  morning  I  had  in- 
tended— but  that  is  all  past  now.  If  I  renounce  my  revenge 
and  wrong-doing  in  one  way,  I  renounce  it  in  all.  I  never 
understood  half  measures." 

"  But  there  is  wrong-doing  here^t  is  right — it  is  your  duty 
to  go." 

"Captain  O'Donnell,  don't  you  see  another  is  in  my  place  ? 
My  going  would  bring  shame,  and  disgrace,  and  miSL-ry  upon 
her.  My  father  is  a  very  proud  man — would  it  add  to  his  pride 
or  happiness  to  acknowledge  such  a  daughter  as  I  ?  " 

"  All  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  the  chasseur  answered, 
with  his  stubborn  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  "  Your  duty  is  to 
go  to  your  father,  and  tell  him  the  truth  at  any  cost  to  his  pride 
or  yours." 

She  smiled. 

"  I  wonder  if  this  would  be  your  advice  if— if,  for  example 
only — my  father  were  the  Earl  of  Ruysland.  (1  name  him,  you 
understand,  as  the  first  I  think  of.)  Suppose  1  went  to  him 
and  said,  '  My  lord,  I,  Katherine  Dangerfield — Helen  Hern- 
castle — Gaston  Dant:«;e — any  alias  you  please — am  your 
daughter ;  she  whom  you  call  Lady  Cecil  Clive  is  but  the 
da.tfrhter  of  your  former  servant,  my  nurse.     She  hated  your 


HUNTED  DOWN. 


^'ourself— to  the 

Inspiration  shin- 

I  thought  my 
fiiig— the  evil— 
^011  bear  lier,  I 

fled,  drew  away 

In  O'Donnell,  I 

I'lg  to  England 
iscovered  it." 

d  the  daughter 
name  I  should 
and  that  nurse 

e  you  indeed  ! 
^oone,  believe 

-ning  I  had  in- 

ce  my  revenge 

all.     I  never 

it  is  your  duty 

in  my  place  ? 
J  misery  upon 
Id  to  his  pride 
I?" 

eur  answered, 
our  duty  is  to 
3t  to  his  pride 


\  for  example 


507 


in)e  him. 


you 


|Vent  to  him 
^elen  Hern- 
2— am  your 
-  is  but  the 
ho  ted  your 


• 


dead  wife,  my  mother,  and  when  you  came  to  claim  your  child 
she  gave  you  hers.'  Suppose  I  said  this — suppose  I  could 
prove  it — what  then  ?  Would  the  earl  clasp  me  to  his  bosom 
in  a  gush  of  parental  love?  Would  Lady  Cecil  get  down  from 
her  pedestal  of  birth  and  rank  and  let  mc  mount?  'I'hink  0/ 
the  earl's  shame  and  pain — her  suffering — Sir  Arthur  Tregeiuui's 
hmniliation  ;  think  how  much  happiness  I,  the  usurper,  enjoy. 
Bring  the  case  home,  and  tell  me  still,  if  you  can — to  go." 

"  1  tell  you  still  to  go.  Right  is  right.  Though  the  Marl  of 
Ruysland  were  your  father,  though  Lady  Cecil  had  usuri)e(l  your 
place,  I  should  still  say,  go — tell  the  truth,  be  the  cost  what  it 
may." 

"  You,  who  love  Lady  Cecil,  give  me  this  advice  ?  Captain 
O'Donnell,  you  don't  love  her." 

'*  I  love  her  so  well  that  I  leave  her ;  I  love  her  so  well  that 
if  the  thing  you  speak  of  were  possible,  I  would  be  the  first  to 
go  and  tell  her.  Once  again — in  the  ace  of  all  that  may  fol- 
low— I  repeat,  go  !  Tell  the  truth,  take  the  place  and  name 
that  are  yours,  and  let  me  help  you  if  I  can." 

But  still  she  sat  keeping  that  strange,  wistful,  searching  gaze 
on  his  face. 

"  You  love  her  so  well  that  you  leave  her,"  she  repeated, 
dreamily ;  '*  you  leave  her  because  she  is  an  earl's  daughter, 
and  you  think  above  you.  If  you  knew  her  to  be  poor — poor 
and  low  born — " 

"  I  v/ould  still  leave  her.  It  would  make  no  difference. 
Poor  or  rich,  gentle  or  simple,  who  am  I  that  I  should  marry  a 
wife  ?  My  soldier's  life  in  camp  and  desert  does  well  enough 
for  me.  How  would  I  do,  think  you,  for  one  brought  up  as 
Lady  Cecil  Clive  has  been  ?  I  can  rough  it  well  enough — the 
life  suits  me ;  but  I  shall  never  care  to  see  my  wife  rough  it 
also.  Let  us  pass  all  that — I  don't  care  to  talk  of  myself 
Lady  Cecil  Clive  is  not  for  me — any  more  than  one  of  her 
Majesty's  daughters.     Let  us  speak  only  of  you." 

She  rose  up  with  a  strange,  unfathomable  smile,  crossed  the 
room  without  a  word,  lit  a  candle  and  placed  it  on  the  table 
before  him.  He  watched  her  in  silent  sur[)ri6e.  She  drew  from 
her  pocket  a  folded  paper,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"  You  have  done  greater  service  than  you  dream  of  in  com- 
ing here,"  she  said.  "  Do  one  last  favor.  I  want  this  paper 
destroyed.  I  have  a  whimsical  fancy  to  see  you  do  it.  Hold 
it  to  the  candle  and  let  it  burn." 

He  took  it  doubtfully.     He  read  the  superscription — "  Con- 


4  I 

1 
i  I 


5o8 


HUNTED  DOWM, 


f ) 


h 


'h 


**  I  (If)n't  know— « 


fesshn  of  Tfiirriet  Tlarmat}^^  and  hesitated, 
why  should  I?      \V:iat\<>  this?" 

'•  Nothing  that  concerns  any  one  on  eartli  but  myself.  You 
will  be  doing  a  good  'Xcii^,  I  believe,  in  destroying  it.  Let  nie 
see  you  burn  it.  7  can  do  it,  of  course  ;  but  as  I  said,  I  have 
a  fancy  that  y(jurs  should  be  the  hand  to  destroy  it.  JUnn  it, 
Captain  O'Donnell." 

Still  wondering — still  doubting — he  obeyed.  Held  the  paper 
in  the  tlanie  of  the  candle  until  it  dropped  in  a  charred  cloud 
on  the  table.  Then  she  heUl  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  brave 
bright  smile. 

'•  Once  more  I  thank  you.  You  have  done  me  a  great  ser- 
vice. You  have  saved  me  from  myself.  When  do  you  and 
your  sister  leave  ?  " 

"  To-day  ;  but  if  I  can  aid  you  in  any  way — if  I  can  take 
you  to  your  fatlur — " 

"  You  are  ready  to  do  it  I  know  ;  but  I  have  not  quite  made 
up  my  mind  about  that  yet.  It  is  not  a  thing  to  be  done  in  a 
hurry.  Give  me  a  few  hours.  Come  back  if  you  will  before 
you  depart,  and  if  you  h.'/e  any  inlluence  with  the  Earl  of 
Ruysland,  don't  let  him  send  that  search-warrant  to-day.  Let 
us  say  good-by,  and  part  tor  the  present." 

He  stood  and  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  He  felt  vaguely 
that  never  had  he  been  farther  from  understanding  her  than  at 
this  moment. 

"I  will  come,"  he  said,  "and  I  hope — I  trust  by  that  time 
you  will  have  made  up  your  mind  to  return  to  your  father,  and 
— if  Rose  wishes  it — may  I  bring  her  to  see  himV 

"  Certainly — he  will  not  know  her — poor  fellow.  He  knows 
nobody.     Farewell,  Redmond  O'Donnell, — my  friend." 

There  was  a  lingering  tenderness  in  her  voice,  in  her  eyes, 
that  might  have  told  him  her  secret.  But  men  are  totally  blind 
sometimes.  He  saw  nothing.  He  grasped  her  hand.  *'  Not 
farewell,"  he  said  :  "au  revoir." 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door.  She  v/atched  him  with  wist- 
ful eyes  out  of  sight. 

*'  Farewell,"  she  said,  softly ;  "  farewell  forever.  If  Henry 
Otis  had  been  to  me  what  you  are,  six  years  ago  1  hafl  been 
saved." 


wkm^mstmiiMm»wsm%. 


THAT  NIGHT. 


509 


[1;  myself.      You 

y  I  >';iiii,  I  have 
p>y  it.     JJuni  ir, 

Meld  the  paper 
Y  charred  cloud 
|i"i  wilha  bravo 

Hi-'  a  great  ser- 
-II  do  you  and 

—if  I  can  take 

not  quite  made 
o  be  done  in  a 
you  will  before 
li  the   I':arl  of 
it  to-day.     Let 

fe  felt  vaguely 
i'lg  ber  than  at 

St  by  that  time 
Jur  father,  and 

^v.     He  knows 

riend." 

e,  in  her  eyes, 

e  totally  blind 

hand.     <'  Not 

him  with  wist- 

r.     If  Ifenry 
;o  I  had  been 


CITAPTKR  XXVI  r. 


THAT   NIGHT. 


.j 


HRKE  hours  later,  and  Retlmond  and  Rose  O'Donnell 
had  quitted  Scarswood  Park  forever.  The  last  fare- 
wells had  been  said — to  Lady  Dangcrfield,  weeping 
feebly,  not  so  much  at  their  loss  as  over  the  gi'neral 
distress  and  misery  that  was  falling  upon  the  place,  the  dri;ad 
of  her  own  fortune.  To  Lady  Cecil,  cold,  and  white,  and  still, 
giving  her  parting  kiss  to  the  sister — her  parting  hand-clasp 
and  look  to  the  brother.  "  Farewell  forever,  my  love — my  love 
— who  loved  me  once," 'that  long,  wistful,  hopeless  glance  said. 
To  I.ord  Ruysland,  politely  affable  and  full  ftf  regrets  to  the 
last. 

"  Confound    Mrs.  Everleigh  and  her  masquerade  ball,  and 
doubly,  trebly  confound  Miss  Herncastle'for  persuading  Cinevra 
to  go.    The  only  consolation  is  we'll  have  her  on  the  hip  before  ' 
night  falls." 

"  And  even  that  consolation  I  must  ask  your  lordshij)  to 
forego,"  O'Donnell  said,  with  a  half  smile,  "/have  been  to 
see  Miss  tierncastle.  And  there  is  no  need  of  that  search- 
warrant,  my  lord.  I  believe  you  are  at  liberty  to  enter  and  go 
through  Bracken  Hollow  as  freely  as  you  please — if  you  only 
wait  until  to-morrow." 

•  "  ^ly  good  fellow,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  Wait  f 
with  such  an  arch-traitress  as  that !  Wait  !  give  her  time  to 
make  her  escape,  and  carry  off  her  victim — her  prisoner,  who- 
e^^er  it  may  be,  and  start  life  luxuriously  in  London  or  Paris, 
under  a  new  aUas,  and  with  poor  Sir  Peter's  money.  My  dear 
O'Donnell,  you're  a  sensible  fello'v  enough  in  the  main,  but 
don't  you  think  this  last  suggestion  of  yours  betrays  slight 
.symptoms  of  softening  of  the  brain  ?  " 

*'  My  lord — no.  You  see  I  know  Miss  Herncastle's  story 
and  you  don't — that  makes  the  difference." 

"  Gad  !  "  his  lordship  responded,  "  I  am  not  sure  that  I  care 
to  know  any  more  than  I  do.  If  her  previous  history  be  in 
keeping  with  its  sequel  here,  it  must  be  an  edifying  autobio- 
graphy.    Is  her  name  Herncastle,  or  what  ?  " 

"  Her  name  is  not  Herncastle.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is. 
1  believe  she  does  not  know  herself.  My  lord,  she  is  greatly 
to  be  pitied ;   she  has  gone  wrong,  but  circumstances  have 


Iil  iht 


■.-li 


J    .'  I 


1!  H 
I 


»' 


510 


77/Ar  NIGIir. 


driven  her  wrong.  The  bitter  cynic  who  defines  virtue  as  only 
the  absence  of  temptation  was  right,  as  cynics  very  generally 
are.  In  her  place  I  believe  I  would  have  done  as  she  has  done 
• — ay,  worse.  Life  has  dealt  hardly  with  her — liardiy — hardly. 
/  tell  you  so  ;  and  to  lean  too  greatly  to  the  side  of  i)ity  for 
the  erring  is  not  my  weakness.  Gaston  Dantree  is  the  ghost 
and  prisoner  of  Rracken  Hollow.  She  hat  ::onfessed  ;  but  I 
believe  he  is  well  and  kindly  treated ;  and  if,  instead  of  caring 
for  him  there,  she  had  left  him  to  die  like  a  dog  in  a  ditch,  she 
would  only  have  given  him  his  deserts.  She  has  taken  (fairly 
or  unfairly,  as  you  will — I  don't  know)  a  large  sum  of  money 
from  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield;  but  I  say  there  too  she  has  served 
him  right.  In  her  place  I  would  have  taken  every  farthing  if  I 
could.  She  has  done  wrong  in  the  matter  of  the  ball,  but  even 
then,  treated  as  Lady  Dangerfield  daily  treated  her,  I  don't  say 
I  would  not  have  done  the  same.  From  first  to  last  I  maintain 
]\liss  Herncastle  has  been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning, 
and  so  your  lordship  would  acknowledge  if  you  knew  all." 

His  eyes  were  Hashing,  his  dark  face  flushed  with  an  earnest- 
ness that  rarely  broke  through  the  indolent  calm  of  long  habit 
and  training.     His  lordshi[)  stood  and  stared  at  him  aghast. 

*'  Good  Heaven  ! "  he  said,  *'  what  rhodomontade  is  this  ? 
Js  the  woman  a  witch  ?  and  have  you  fallen  under  her  spells  at 
last  ?  And  I  would  acknowledge  all  this  if  I  knew  all.  Then, 
my  dear  fellow,  in  the  name  of  common-sense  tell  me  all,  for 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  make  top  or  tail  of  this.  Who,  in 
Heaven's  name,  is  this  greatly  wronged — much-to-be-pitied 
Miss  Herncastle?" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you — and  yet  it  is  such  a  mar- 
velous story — ^" 

"Egad!  I  know  that  beforehand;  everything  connected 
with  this  extraordinary  young  woman  is  marvelous.  Whatever 
it  is,  it  cannot  be  much  more  marvelous  than  what  has  gone 
before." 

*'My  lord,"  O'Donnell  said,  hastily,  "I  see  my  sister vA'aiting, 
and  I  have  no  time  to  spare.  Here  is  a  proposal  :  don't  go 
near  Bracken  Hollow  until  to-morrow,  until  you  have  heard 
from  me.  Before  I  leave  Castleford  I  will  find  time  to  write 
you  the  whole  thing  ;  I  really  don't  care  to  tell  it,  and  when 
you  have  read  her  story,  I  believe  I  only  do  you  justice  in  say- 
ing you  will  let  Miss  Herncastle  alone.  I  have  reason  to 
think  she  will  leave  Castleford  to-day  with  my  sister  and  me — 
that  she  will  share  Rose's  asylum  in  France,  and  that  all  her 


v ) 


.l.i|]|U.Jiil.llf  nil 


THAT  NIGHT. 


virtue  .as  only 
veij  generally 
Y  slie  has  (lone 
(lardly— hardly. 
'iJe  of  pity  for 
3e  is  (he  ghost 
(ifessed;  but  I 
stead  of  caring 
1"  a  ditch,  she 
U  taken  (fairly 
sum  of  money 
[she  has  served 
ry  farthing  if  j 
l>all,  but  even 
^%  I  don't  say 
^^^t  r  maintain 
than  siiming, 
niew  all." 
ith  an  earnest- 
1  of  long  habit 
iini  aghast, 
itade  is  this? 
■r  Jier  spells  at 
vv  all.     Then, 
ell  me  all,  for 
lis-     Who,  in 
:h-to-be-pitied 

such  a  mar-' 

g  connected 
••  ^Vhatever 
lat  has  gone 

ister  waiting, 
al  :  .don't  go 
have  heard 
nie  to  write 
t,  and  when 
>tice  in  say- 
•  reason  to 
r  and  me — 
hat  all  her 


511 


evil  doings  are  at  an  end.    To-night  you  shall  have  my  letter — 
to-morrow  do  as  you  please.     Once  more,  my  lord,  farewell." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  sprang  down  the  steps  to  where  Rose 
sat  in  the  basket-carriage  awaiting  him.  Once  he  glanced 
i)ack — he  half  smiled  to  see  his  lordship  standing  petrified 
where  he  had  left  him.  He  glanced  up  at  a  particular  window. 
A  face,  thai  dead  and  in  its  coffin  would  never  look  whiter, 
watched  him  there.  He  waved  his  hand — the  ponies  flung  up 
their  heads  and  dashed  down  the  avenue  ;  in  a  moment  Scars- 
wood  lay  behind  them  like  a  place  in  a  dream. 

There  was  not  one  word  spoken  all  the  way.  Once  Rose, 
about*  to  speak,  had  glanced  at  her  brother's  face,  and  the 
words  died  on  his  lips.  Did  he  love  Lady  Cecil  after  all — had 
he  loved  her  vainly  for  years  ? 

They  went  to  the  Silver  Rose.  Miss  O'Donnell  had  her 
former  room,  and  there,  wrenching  himself  from  the  bitterness 
and  pain  of  his  own  loss,  he  told  her  the  story  of  Gaston  Dan- 
tree. 

"  If  ydu  would  like  to  see  him,  now  is  your  time,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  going  to  Bracken  Hollow.     You  can  come  if  you  like." 

She  listened  in  pale  amaze,  shrinking  and  trembling  as  she 
heard.  An  idiot  for  life  !  At  the  horror  of  that  fate  all  her 
wrongs  paled  into  insignificance — what  awful  retribution  was 
here  ?  She  rose  up  ashen  gray  with  pity  and  horror,  but  tear- 
less and  quiet. 

' '  1  will  go,"  she  answered. 

He  procured  a  fly,  and  they  started  at  once.  Again  it  was  a 
very  silent  drive.  Redmond  O'Donnell  forced  his  thoughts 
from  his  own  troubles  ;  brooding  on  hopeless  loss  of  any  kind 
was  not  his  nature,  and  thought  of  Katherine.  He  almost  won- 
dered at  himself  at  the  pity  he  felt  for  her — at  the  sort  of  ad- 
miration and  affection  she  had  inspired  him  with.  How  brave 
she  was,  how  resolute,  how  patient ;  what  wonderful  self-com- 
mand was  hers.  What  elements  for  a  noble  and  beautiful  life, 
warjied  and  gone  wrong.  But  it  was  not  yet  too  late  ;  the 
courage,  the  generosity,  the  nobility  within  her  would  work  for 
good  from  henceforth.  He  would  take  her  to  France,  her  bet- 
ter nature  would  assert  itself  She  would  one  day  become  one 
of  these  exceptionally  great  women  whom  the  world  delights 
to  honor.  She — he  paused.  They  had  drawn  up  at  the  gate, 
and  standing  there  with  folded  arms,  with  rigidly  compressed 
lips,  with  eyes  that  looked  like  gleaming  steel,  stood  Henry 
Otis. 


512 


THAT  NIGHT. 


%     > 


...  \ 


\)  i 


% 


The  Algerian  soldier  knew  him  at  once,  and  knew  the  in- 
stant he  saw  him  something  had  gone  wrong.  As  he  advanced 
wiih  his  sister  Mr.  Otis  flung  open  the  gate,  took  off  his  hat  to 
the  sister,  and  abruptly  addressed  the  brother. 

"'I  have  the  honor  of  speaking  to  Captain  Redmond  O'Don- 
nell  ?  " 

"  I  am  Captain  O'Donnell,  Mr.  Otis,"  was  the  calm  answer. 
"  I  come  here  with  my  sister  by  Miss  Herncastle's  permission." 

"  I  inferred  that.     This  is  your  second  visit  to-day?" 

"My  second  visit,"  O'Donnell  added,  secretly  wondering 
why  the  man  should  assume  that  belligerent  attitude  and  angry 
tone.  "  1  trust  Miss  Herncastle  is  here  ?  I  came,  expecting 
to  meet  her." 

'•  Miss  Herncastle  is  not  here  !"  Otis  replied,  his  eyes  glanc- 
ing their  irate  steely  fire  ;  "  she  has  gone." 

"(ione  !" 

"  Gone — fled — run  away.  That  would  not  surprise  me  ;  but 
this  does."  He  struck  angrily  an  open  letter  he  held.  "  Captain 
O'Donnell,  what  have  you  been  saying  to  her — what  influence 
do_iw/  possess  over  her  that  she  should  resign  the  triumph  of  her 
life,  in  the  hour  of  its  fulfillment,  for  you?  By  what  right  do 
you  presume  to  come  here,  and  meddle  with  what  in  no  way 
concerns  you  ?  " 

Redmond  O'Donnell  stood  and  looked  at  him,  his  straight 
black  brows  contracting,  his  voice  sinking  to  a  tone  ominously 
low  and  calm. 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  "  step  in  here  and  wait  until  I  rejoin  you." 
She  obeyed  with  a  startled  look.  "  Now  then,  Mr.  Otis,  let  us 
understand  one  another ;  I  don't  comprehend  one  word  you 
are  saying,  but  I  do  comprehend  that  you  have  taken  a  most 
disagreeable  tone.  Be  kind  enough  to  change  it  to  one  a  little 
1'.  ss  aggressive,  and  to  make  your  meaning  a  little  more  clear." 

"  Vou  don't  understand?"  Otis  repeated,  still  with  sup- 
pressed anger.  "  Have  you  not  been  the  one  to  counsel  her 
to  renounce  the  aim  of  her  life,  to  resign  her  birthright  because, 
forL^ooth,  the  woman  who  has  usurped  it  is  your  friend  ?  Have 
you  not  been  the  one  to  urge  this  flight — to  compel  this  renun- 
ciation ?" 

"  My  good  fellow,"  O'Donnell  cried  impatiently,  "if  you  in- 
tend to  talk  Greek,  talk  it,  but  don't  expect  me  to  understand. 
And  1  never  was  clever  at  guessing  riddles.  If  Miss  Herncastle 
has  run  away,  I  am  sincerely  sorry  to  hear  it — it  is  news  to  me. 
What  you  mean  about  renouncing  her  birthright  and  all  that, 


t,^afc^. 


THAT  NIGHT. 


[knew  the  in- 

J  he  advanced 
|off  his  hat  to 

lond  O'Don- 

^alm  answer. 

jpermission." 
(ay  ?  " 

wondering 
le  and  angry 
fe,  expecting 

eyes  glanc- 


nse  me ;  but 
J-  '.'Captain 
at  influence 
iiiniphofher 
lat  right  do 
in  no  way 

his  straigjit 
e  ominously 

rejoin  you." 
Otis,  let  us 
^  word  you 
en  a  most 
one  a  htde 
lore  clear." 
with  sup- 
ounsel  her 
It  because, 
d  ?     Have 
this  renun- 

if  }'ou  in- 
Klerstand. 
lerncastle 
'vvs  to  me. 
J  all  that, 


5^3 


you  may  know — I  don't.  I  urged  her  to  give  up  the  life  of  false- 
hood and  deception  she  has  been  leading  lately  for  one  more 
worthy  of  her,  and  I  understood  her  to  say  she  would.     The 
inllucnce  I  possess  over  her  is  only  the  influence  any  true  friend 
might  possess.     Farther  than  that,  if  you  want  me  to  know 
what  you  are  talking  about,  you  will  be  kind  enough  to'explain." 
And  Henry  Otis,  looking  into  the  dark,  gravely  haughty  face 
knew  that  he  spoke  the  truth.     He  handed  him  the  letter. 
"  It  is  from  her,''  he  said,  "  to  me.     Read  it." 
O'Donnell  obeyed.     It  bore  date  that  day,  and  was  signifi 
cantly  brief. 

"IIexry — MY  Brother  :  You  will  be  surprised — pained,  angered,  it  "may 
1)L  —when  I  tell  you  I  am  going,  and  coming  back  no  more.  I  give  it  all  up — 
all  the  plotting,  the  weary,  wicked,  endless  scheming  that  brought  revenge 
perhai>s,  but  never  happiness.  And  the  confession  is  burned  !  They  shall 
never  know — neither  my  father,  nor  she  who  has  taken  my  place  unwittingly, 
shall  ever  be  rendered  miserable  by  the  truth.  I  can  remember  now  that 
s/ie  at  least  was  ever  gentle  and  sweet  to  me.  If  I  told  them  to-morrow, 
I  could  not,  would  not  take  her  place  ;  my  father  would  never  care  for  me 
— would  look  upon  me  as  a  shame  and  disgrace.  Let  it  go  with  all  the 
rest.  Captain  O'Donnell  has  proven  himself  my  friend  ;  for  his  sake  I  re- 
nounce my  chcrisht-d  vengeance.  Let.  the  miserable  woman  we  have  lured 
here  go.  Care  for  poor  Gaston  as  you  have  always  cared.  Do  not  follow 
nic  ;  when  happier  days  come  I  will  go  to  you.  Do  not  fear  for  me  ; 
I  will  not  return  to  the  stage  ;  I  shall  live  honestly  and  uprightly  for  the 
time  that,  is  to  come,  God  helping  me.  Sir  Peter  Dangerfield's  money  is  in 
ILii  ■•■■\'  '  ieping  ;  restore  it  to  him  ;  I  would  die  sooner  than  use  it.  Tell 
Capl  a.  Junnell  that  while  I  thank  him — thank  him  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul — I  sLill  cannot  go  with  him.  For  my  own  sake  I  cannot.  lie  has 
been  my  salvation  ;  to  my  dying  day  his  memory  and  yours  will  be  the 
dearest  in  my  heart.  Dear  Henry,  my  best  friend,  my  dearest  brother, 
farewell  !  I  have  been  a  trouble,  a  distress  to  you,  from  the  first  ;  tliis  last 
flight  will  trouble  and  distress  you  most  of  all ;  but  it  is  for  the  best — the 
rest  never  were. — Farewell  1  Katherine." 

> 

Redmond  O'Donnell  looked  up  from  the  letter  with  a  face 
of  pale  wonder. 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  he  asked.  "  *  Dare  not  come  with 
me  for  her  own  sake  ! '     What  folly  is  this  ?  " 

Henry  Otis  returned  his  glance  gloomily  enough.  Jle  un- 
derstood, if  O'Donnell  did  not. 

"  Who  can  comprehend  a  woman — least  of  all  such  a  woman 
as  Katherine  Dangerfield?  But  for  once  she  shall  be  dis- 
obeyed. For  six  years  I  have  obeyed  her  in  good  and  in  evil ; 
now  I  refuse  to  obey  longer.  The  truth  shall  be  told — yes,  by 
Heaven! — let  their  pride  suffer  as  it  may.  They  shall  know 
23* 


514 


THAT  NIGHT. 


■  '-?■ 


that  the  girl  upon  whom  they  trar^pled  is  of  their  blood  !  He, 
with  all  his  dignity  and  mightiness,  shall  find  she  is  his 
daughter  ! " 

"Who?"  O'Donnell  asked,  with  a  pierceing  glance.  But 
ITenry  Otis  moodily  drew  back. 

"  Yonder  is  Hannah — if  you  want  to  see  the  miserable 
wretch  hidden  for  five  years  at  Bracken  Hollow,  you  had  better 
go.     I  shall  tell  him,  not  you." 

His  angry  jealousy  flashed  out  in  every  look,  in  every  word. 
He  hated  this  man — this  dark,  dashing,  Irish  soldier — with 
his  magnificent  stature,  his  handsome,  dusk  face.  Katherine 
loved  him  !  Was  it  part  of  her  wretched  destiny  always  to 
love  men  utterly  indifferent  to  her,  while  he — all  his  life  it 
seemed  to  him  he  had  lain  his  heart  at  her  feet,  and  it  had  been 
less  to  her  than  the  ground  she  trod. 

He  turned  away  from  him  in  a  passion  of  wrath  against  her, 
against  the  tall,  haughty,  amazed  chasseur,  against  himself  and 
his  infatuation,  and  dashed  into  the  belt  of  gloomy  woodland 
that  shut  in  the  gloomy  house. 

"  I'll  tell  at  least !  "  he  thought,  savagely.  "I'll  humble  the 
Earl  of  Rnysland  ;  and  for  her — let  her  resent  it  if  she  will.  I 
have  been  her  puppet  long  enough.  While  she  cared  for  no 
one  more,  I  hoped  against  hope,  but  now  that  she  has  fallen  in 
love  with  this  Irish  free-lance,  let  her  go.  My  slavery  ends 
frpm  to-day." 

O'Donnell  looked  after  him,  angry  in  his  turn — then  glancing 
at  his  watch  and  seeing  that  time  was  flying,  he  rejoined  his  sis- 
ter waiting  anxiously  in  the  porch. 

"  Who  is  that  man,  Redmond  ?"  she  asked,  timidly — "were 
you  qiuirrelling  ?     How  angry  he  looked ! " 

"/  was  not  quarrelling,"  he  answered,  shortly.  "Rose,  we 
have  no  time  to  spare.  See  this  man  if  you  will,  and  let  us  go* 
I  want  to  catch  the  five  o'clock  train." 

Old  Hannah  was  in  waiting — she  too  looked  gloomy  and  for- 
bidding. Her  nursling  had  fled — in  some  way  this  young 
man  had  to  do  with  it,  and  Hannah  resented  it  accordingly.  He 
saw  it  and  asked  no  questions — he  felt  no  inclination  to  subject 
himself  to  further  rebuffs.  Let  them  all  go — he  did  not  under- 
stand them — he  washed  his  hands  from  henceforth  of  the  whole 
affair. 

Hannah  in  silence  led  the  way  up  a  dark,  spiral  staircase  to 
an  upper  room.  She  r^iutiously  inserted  a  key  and  unlocked 
the  door. 


THAT  NIGHT, 


515 


[ir  blood  \     He, 
^nd    she  is  his' 

glance.     But 

the   miserable 
I  you  had  .better 

in  every  word, 
soldier— wi  til 

p-  Katherine 
tiny  always  to 
-all  his  life  it 
md  it  had  been 

ith  against  her, 
1st  himself  and 
omy  woodland 

I'll  humble  the 
if  she  will.  I 
'e  cared  for  no 
'e  has  fallen  in 
'  slavery  ends 

-then  glancing 
-joined  his  sis- 

nidly— "were 

"Rose,  we 
md  let  us  go/ 

>omy  and  for- 
'  this  young 
rdingjy.  He 
on  to  subject 
d  not  under- 
of  the  whole 

staircase  to 
id  unlocked 


<< 


Make  no  noise,"  she  said  in  a  whisper  ;  "  he's  asleep." 

Sne  softly  opened  the  door  and  led  the  way  in.  They  fol- 
lowed. Rose  clinging  to  her  brother's  arm — white,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  She  was  led  to  a  bed  ;  upon  it  a  figure  lay, 
asleep,  motionless.  A  hot  mist  was  before  her  eyes ;  for  a  mo- 
ment she  c  'ild  not  look ;  then  it  cleared  away.  She  strove 
to  command  herself,  and  for  the  first  time  in  seven  years  Rose 
Marie  Dantree  looked  upon  her  husband's  face. 

There  was  nothing  revolting  or  terrible  in  the  sight.  As  he 
lay  asleep  all  the  old  beauty  was  there — the  calm,  the  peace. 
One  arm  supported  his  head — he  was  neither  worn  nor  thin — 
he  had  changed  very  little.  The  classic  profile  was  turned  to- 
ward them — the  long,  black  lashes  swept  his  cheeks,  the  lips 
were  parted  in  something  like  a  smile,  the  glossy,  black,  curling 
hair  was  swept  off  the  forehead.  He  looked  beautiful  as  he 
lay  there  asleep.  And  over  Rose's  heart  the  old  love  surged 
— the  great  wrong  he  had  done  her  was  forgotten — she  only 
remembered  she  had  been  his  wife,  and  that  he  had  loved  her 
once.     Her  face  worked — she  sank  on  her  knees. 

"  Gaston  !     Gaston  !  "  she  whispered,  growing  ghastly. 

He  started  in  his  sleep — the  dark,  large  sunken  eyes  opened 
and  looked  at  her.  As  she  met  them  the  last  trace  of  life  left 
her  flice — she  sank  backward — her  brother  caught  her  as  she 
fell. 

**  I  might  have  known  it  would  be  too  much  for  her,"  he  said. 
"  I  should  never  have  let  her  come." 

She  was  on  the  grass  outside  the  gate  when  she  recovered, 
her  brother  bathing  her  forehead  and  holding  her  in  his  arms. 
She  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  burst  into  a  sudden  passion  of 
crying,  and  hid  her  face  on  his  breast.  He  was  very  patient 
and  gentle  with  lier — he  let  her  cry  in  peace.  Presently  he 
stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  If  you  are  ready  we  will  go  now,  Rose,"  he  said.  "  You 
must  not  see  him  again.  It  can  do  no  good — his  case  is  hope- 
less— he  knows  no  one,  and  when  he  is  disturbed  he  gives 
trouble,  the  old  woman  says.  Come,  Rose,  be  brave — 't  is  hard 
on  you,  but  life  is  hard  on  all  of  us.  Since  we  7niist  bear  our 
troubles,  let  us  at  least  bear  them  bravely." 

She  went  without  a  word.  She  drew  her  veil  over  her  face, 
and  cried  silently  behind  it.  They  reached  the  Silver  Rose  ; 
Lanty  and  the  luggage  were  here.  The  luggage  was  ready 
for  the  railway,  but  Lanty  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The 
sound  of  voices  in  the  courtyard,  however,  guided  his  master— 


5i6 


THAT  NIGHT. 


\i\ 


]\fr.  LafTerty's  melMfluou;^  Northern  accent  was.  not  to  be 
mistaken, 

'*  Sec  now — that  T  may  niver  sin  (God  pardin  me  for  swearin) 
— but  I'll  come  back  to  ye — an'  maybe  marry  ye — if  I  don't 
see  anybody  1  like  better.  Arrah  !  where's  the  good  av'  cryin' 
and  screechin'  in  this  way?  Share  me  own  heart's  broke  in- 
tirely — so  it  is.  An'  thin  ye  can  write  to  me  when  I'm  away, 
an'  isn't  that  same  a  comfort  ?  Faith  !  it's  a  beautiful  hand  ye 
write — ac^uil  to  iver  a  schoolmaster  in  Ballynahaggart.  An'  ye'U 
dait  yer  letthers  in  this  way  :  '  Misther  Lanty  l.afferty,  in  care 
o'  the  Masther.  In  Furrin  parts.'  Arrah  I  hould  yer  noise, 
an'  don't  be  fetchin  the  parish  down  on  us.  Far  or  near, 
amii't  1  ready  to  stick  to  ye,  Shusan,  through  thick  an'  thin? 
Arrah,  is  it  doubtin'  me  ye  are  ?  See  now,  it's  the  truth  I'm 
tL-llin';  that  I  may  go  to  my  grave  feet  foremost  if  it  isn't." 

Mr.  Lafferty  and  the  rosy-cheeked  barmaid  were  ensconced 
behind  a  tree,  Lanty  seated  on  the  pump,  Susan  dissolved  in 
tears — a  love-scene,  undoubtedly.  Susan's  reply  was  inaudible, 
but  her  lover  might  be  heard  by  any  one  who  chose  to  listen. 

"Why  don't  1  lave  him,  is  it?  Upon  me  conscience,  thin, 
it's  long  and  many's  the  day  ago  I'd  av  left  him  wid  his  sodger- 
in'  an'  his  thrampin'  if  I  cud  have  found  ive'*  a  dacent  Irish  boy 
to. thrust  him  wid.  But  there  it  was,  ye  see — av  a  bullet  from 
a  rille,  or  a  poke  from  a  pike  cut  his  sodgering  short,  I  was  al- 
ways to  the  fore  to  close  the  corpse's  eyes,  an'  wake  him  com- 
fortably, and  see  that  he  had  a  headstone  over  him,  as  a  dacent 
O'Donnell  should.  But,  shure — (this  is  a  saycret,  mind) — her 
ladysli.'u,  good  luck  to  her !  has  him  now,  or  will  shortly ;  an' 
irotii  if  he's  half  as  unaisy,  an'  half  as  throublesome  on  her 
hands  as  he  is  on  mine,  it's  hersilf 'II  be  sick  an'  sore  av  her 
bargain.  An'  it's  on  me  two  knees  I'd  go  to  ye  this  minute, 
me  darlin,  av  it  wasn't  owin  to  the  dampness  of  the  grass,  an' 
the  rheumatism  that  does  be  throublin'  me  in  the  small  av  me 
back,  an'  ax  ye  there,  fornint  me,  av  ye'll  be  Misthress  Lafferty. 
And  faith  !  it's  not  to  more  than  half  a  dozen  young  women  livin' 
I'd  say  the  like." 

"  Lanty  !  I  say,  you  scoundrel,  do  you  want  to  be  late  ?  " 
called  the  voice  of  his  master.  "  Come  along  here — there's 
not  a  minute  to  lose." 

"  Oh,  tare  an'  ages  I  Shure  there  he  is  himself!  Give  us 
a  kiss,  Shusan,  me  darlin'  av'  the  wurruld,  an'  long  life  to  ye  till 
I  come  back." 

Tlicre  was  the  very  audible  report  of  a  very  audible  embrace, 


THAT  NIGHT. 


517 


Ls-  not   to   be 


e 


e  for  swearin) 
e— if  I  don't 
ooci  av'  cryiii' 
It's  broke  in- 
len  I'm  away, 
tifiil  hand  ye 
:'t-     An'  ye'll 
fferty,  in  care 
Id  yer  noise, 
Far  or  near, 
ick  an'  thin  ? 
the  truth  I'm 
it  isn't." 

re  ensconced 
dissolved  in 
^as  inaudible, 
e  to  listen. 
'Cience,  thin, 
1  his  sodger- 
2nt  Irish  boy 

1  bullet  from 
>»"t,  I  was  al- 
•^e  him  com- 
as a  dacent 
mind)— her 
shortly;  an' 
Jme  on  her 
sore  av  her 
Ins  minute, 

2  grass,  an' 
niall  av  me 
ss  Lafferty. 
omen  livin' 

be  late?" 
re— there's 

Give  us 
e  to  ye  till 

:  embrace, 


i 


and  then  Mr.  I.afferty  in  great  haste  made  his  appearance  round 
the  ingle  of  the  building. 

"  Comin',  sir — comin',  yer  honor.  Niver  fear  but  I'll  be  ir 
time.     I'll  be  at  the  station  below  in  a  pig's  whisper." 

There  was  barely  time  to  attend  to  the  luggage,  pay  the  bill 
and  drive  to  the  station.  They  caught  the  train,  and  no  more 
There  had  been  no  opportunity  of  writing  his  lordship  the  ex 
planation  he  had  promised.  It  must  be  postponed  until  theii 
arrival  in  London. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  him  all,  and  entreat  him  to  let  her  alone. 
Even  Sir  Peter,  when  he  learns  who  she  is,  and  receives  his 
money  back,  will  hardly  care  to  further  persecute  Katherine 
Dangerfield.  And  she  dare  not  go  with  me  for  her  own  sake  ! 
Hum — m — I  don't  understand  //w/." 

It  was  late  when  the  lights  of  the  great  metropolis  flashed 
before  them.  They  drove  at  once  to  a  quiet  family  hotel,  and 
late  as  it  was,  Captain  O'Donnell  sat  to  write  and  post  the 
l)ro;iii.sed  letter  to  Lord  Ruysland.  He  told  him  at  length 
of  the  story  of  his  suspicions,  of  the  night  visit  to  Bracken 
Hollow,  when  his  lordship  had  seen  him  accompany  Miss 
Llerncastle  home,  of  the  scar  on  the  temple,  of  the  opening  of 
the  grave — of  the  " confirmation  strong  as  Holy  Writ" — the 
accumulated  evidence  which  had  proven  her  Katherine  Dan- 
gerfield. 

"  Her  sins  have  been  forced  upon  her,"  he  wrote  ;  '*  her 
virtues  are  her  own.  In  the  hour  of  her  triumph  she  resigns  all 
-  confesses  all,  and  sends  back  the  money  won  to  Sir  Peter 
Dangerfield.  She  has  gone — let  her  go  in  peace.  She  has 
suffered  enough  to  expiate  even  greater  wrong-doing  than  hers. 
1  believe  she  has  made  a  much  greater  renunciation — I  believe 
she  has  destroyed  or  caused  me  to  destroy,  the  paper  that  would 
have  proved  her  birthright.  It  was  superscribed  '  Confession 
of  Harriet  Harman,'  and  now  that  I  have  had  time  to  think 
over  her  words,  I  believe  that  confession  proved  her  parentage. 
As  I  understand  her,  this  Harriet  Harman  was  her  nurse,  and 
for  some  reason  of  her  own,  placed  another  child  in  her  stead, 
took  her  from  England,  and  in  France  gave  her  to  Sir  John 
Dangerfield.  Her  assertion  of  her  claims,  she  said,  could  bring 
nothing  but  misery — pain  and  shame  to  her  father — suffering 
and  disgrace  to  her  who  stood  in  her  place.  So  in  the  hour  of 
its  fruition  she  deliberately  destroyed  her  last  hope,  and  has  gone 
forth  into  the  world  to  labor  for  her  bread,  leaving  another  to 
usurp  her  name  and   station.     Sacrifice   less   great   has  been 


r 


518 


THAT  NIGHT 


!»J 


W      1 


II  Hi 


made,  and  called  itself  martyrdom.  If  you  ever  meet  hef 
again,  my  lord — be  her  friend  as  I  would  have  been,  had  she 
allowed  me." 

The  dawn  was  gray  in  the  August  sky  as  Captain  O'Donnell 
])osted  this  letter.  Two  hours  later,  as  he  sat  at  their  early 
breakfast  with  his  sister,  the  cab  that  was  to  carry  them  to  Lon- 
don Bridge  station  waiting  at  the  door,  one  of  the  small  boys 
telegraph  offices  employ,  approached  him  with  an  ominous 
yellow  envelope  in  his  hand.  O'Donnell  tore  it  open — it  was  a 
cable  message — dated  New  Orleans,  and  in  a  dozen  words 
changed  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life. 

"  Redmond  O'Donneli,  : — My  wife  and  son  are  dead.  For  God's  sake 
come  to  me  at  once  and  fetch  Rose.  Louis  De  Lansac." 

Lord  Ruysland,  without    knowing  why,  obeyed    Redmond 
O'Donnell  and  postponed  that  forcible  visit  to  Bracken  Hoi-' 
low. 

"It  isn't  like  O'Donnell  to  be  swayed  by  any  sentimental 
impulse,"  his  lordship  mused  ;  "he  generally  has  some  sound 
reason  for  what  he  does  and  says.  1  wonder  what  he  meant 
by  that  profession  of  sympathy  and  conipassion,  and  the  rest 
of  it.  She  is  a  fine  woman — an  unconnnonly  fine  woman ; 
but  the  big  chasseur  isn't  the  sort  to  be  influenced  by  that. 
I'll  wait  until  I  get  his  letter  at  least,  and  upon  my  life  I  hope 
I'll  get  it  soon,  for  I  feel  as  curious  as  a  woman." 

He  was  taking  a  gentle  evening  constitutional  around  the 
big  fish-pond,  feeling  very  much  bored,  and  waiting  for  the 
dinner-bell.  Men  and  women  around  him  might  sin  and  sepa- 
rate, love  and  part,  but  all  that  was  over  and  done  with  long 
ago,  with  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Ruysland.  Life 
flowed  on,  a  tranquil  river — it's  only  ripple  duns  and  digestion  ; 
passion  and  he  had  long  ago  shaken  hands  and  parted.  The 
house  was  insufferably  dull ;  O'Donnell,  his  sister,  Sir  Arthur, 
anu  Sir  Peter  gone  ;  Lady  Dangerfield  in  alternate  fits  of  tears, 
hysterics,  scolding,  and  sulks  ;  and  his  daughter  moving  about 
the  rooms  in  her  light  shining  summer  dress,  more  like  some 
pale  spirit  of  a  dead  Lady  Cecil  than  her  living  self 

"  Life  has  a  natural  tendency  to  the  contraries,"  his  lordship 
moralized,  plaintively;  "human  nature  inclines  to  the  zig-zag. 
Now  why,  in  Heaven's  name,  niust  Ginevra,  gifted  with  the 
average  of  woman's  cunning — quarrel  with  her  lord  and  mas- 
ter— defy  Sir  Peter,  and  involve  herself  and  all  her  relations  in 
trouble?   Why  can't  Queenie  bloom  and  smile  as  the  affianced 


i^ 


a«faai 


THAT  NIGHT. 


519 


^'er  meet  hei 
been,  had  she 

lin  O'Donnell 
at  their  early 
them  to  Lon- 
le  small  boys 
an  ominous 
.)en — it  was  a 
dozen  words 

For  God's  sake 
>E  Lansac." 

d    Redmond 
Jracken  Hol- 

7  sentimental 
some  sound 
at  he  meant 
and  the  rest 
ine  won)an; 
iced  hy  that. 
y  life  1  hope 

around  the 
fi"g  for  the 
in  and  sepa- 
le  with  long 
iland.     Life 
1  digestion ; 
rted.     The 
Sir  Arthur, 
Its  of  tears, 
>ving  about 

like  some 


lis  lordship 
he  zig-zag. 
1  with  the 
and  mas- 
elations  in 
•  affianced 


I 


bride  of  one  of  the  richest  young  baronets  in  the  United 
Kingdom  shoulo,  instead  of  fading  away  to  a  shadow  ?  VVhy 
need  O'Donnell  ever  have  crossed  her  path  again?  1  knoM 
she  is  in  love  with  that  fellow.  Isn't  the  world  big  enough  for 
him  without  coming  to  Castleford  ?  And,  finally,  why  couldn't 
Miss  Herncastle  have  selected  some  other  peaceable  country 
family  to  play  her  devilish  pranks  on  as  well  as  this?  Life's 
a  game  of  contraries,  I  repeat — it  reminds  one  of  the  child's 
jilay  :  *  When  I  say  Hold  P'ast,  You  Let  Go  I '  Ah,  good  even- 
ing, sir  ;  do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

Lord  Ruysland  lifted  his  hat  blandly.  For  the  last  two  or 
three  minutes  he  had  been  watching  a  tall  young  man  ap- 
jiroaching  him — a  perfect  stranger — with  the  evident  intention 
of  speaking.  As  he  paused  before  him,  his  dobonnaire  lordship 
took  the  initiative,  lifted  his  beaver,  and  addressed  him. 

"You  wish  to  speak  to  rce,  sir?"  he  repeated,  suaA  ely. 

"  1  wish  to  speak  to  you,  if,  us  I  tnink,  you  are  the  Earl  of 
Ruysland." 

"  I  am  the  Earl  of  Ruysland,  and  1  have  the  honor  of  ad- 
dressing—  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Henry  Otis.  Six  years  ago  I  was  Dr.  Graves' 
assistant  and  medical  practitioner  in  Castleford.  If  your  lord- 
ship has  ever  heard  the  story  of  Katherine  Dangerfield,  you 
may  also  have  heard  of  me." 

Lord  Ruysland's  double  eye-glass  went  up  to  Lord  Rnys- 
land's  light-blue,  short-sighted,  English  eyes,  and  Lord  Ruys- 
land replied,  with  the  languid  drawl  of  English  high  life  : 

"  Aw,  Katherine  Dangerfield,  that  ubiquitous  young  woman 
again.  Um,  yaas,  I  have  heard  the  story  of  Katherir:  Dan- 
gerfield until  the  mere  sound  of  her  name  grows  a  bore.  I 
have  also  heard  in  connection  with  that  very  tiresome  young 
person  the  name  of— -aw — Mr.  Henry  Otis.  Now  n)ay  I  ask 
what  Mr.  Otis  can  have  to  say  on  this — er — threadbare  sub- 
ject, and  why  he  feels  called  upon  to  say  it  to  ffie  ?  " 

"■  For  the  best  reason  in  the  world — that  I  believe  jj'^wr  lord- 
ship has  the  honor  of  being  Katherine  Dangerfield's  father  !" 

Like  a  bolt  from  a  bow — like  a  bullet  whizzing  from  a  rifle, 
the  truth  came.  And  Heniy  Otis  folded  his  arms  and  stood 
before  the  noble  peer  with  a  grimly  triumphant  face. 

"Your   daughter!"    he  repeated.     "You   understand,  my 
lord,  your   only  daughter.     For  the   past  twenty  years  youi 
lordship  has  been  laboring  under  a  mbnstrous  delusion.    Kath 
erine  Dangerfield  was  your  daughter." 


520 


THAT  NIGHT. 


I 


I 


^ 


,'  >. 

iNi 

i^V 

;H| 

f^Bol 

<a. 

11 

■  »- 

jl 

ll 

*•! 

I  Rli 

1 

No  sliadow  of  change  came  over  the  earl's  placid  face. 
With  his  eye-glass  still  up  he  stood  and  stared  cahuly  at  Henry 
Otis. 

"  You're  not  a  lunatic,  /  suppose,"  he  said,  meaningly. 
*'  You  don't  look  as  though  you  were.  Still  you'll  excuse  nie 
if  I  venture  to  doubt  your  perfect  sanity.  Have  you  any  more 
rtmarks  of  this  extraordinary  nature  to  make  ?  For  if  you 
have" — he  pulled  out  his  watch — "my  time  is  limited.  In  ten 
minutes  the  dinner-bell  will  ring,  and  it  is  one  of  the  few  fixed 
jjiiiiciples  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  retain,  never  to  be  late 
for  dinner." 

"  My  lord,"  Henry  Otis  said,  "you  do  not  believe  me,  of 
course — wjiat  I  say  cannot  sound  otherwise  than  mad  and  pre- 
sumptuous, and  yet  it  is  true.  I  beg  of  you  to  listen  to  me — 
1  hapjien  to  be  able  to  prove  what  I  say.  Carry  your  mind 
back  twenty  years,  and  tell  me  if  you  happen  to  remember 
Harriet  Harman  ?" 

"  I  remember  Harriet  Harman  perfectly  well.  Will  you 
pardon  me,  Mr.  Otis,  if  I  say  I  think  you  are  troubling  your- 
self greatly  with  what  in  no  way  concerns  you,  and  what  1 
have  no  desire  to  hear." 

"  By  Heaven,  my  lord,  you  shall  hear  !"  Henry  Otis  cried, 
his  sallow  face  whitening  with  anger,  "if  not  in  private  here, 
then  in  the  public  print.  I  am  not  mad,  though  my  assertion 
must  sound  like  madness  to  you.  I  can  prove  what  I  say. 
Twenty  years  ago,  when  Harriet  Harman  gave  you  the  child 
}c)u  came  to  claim,  she  gave  you — not  the  daughter  ot  the  late 
Countess  of  Ruysland,  but  her  own." 

There  were  five  seconds'  blank  silence.  The  face  of  Henry 
Otis  was  white,  his  pale  eyes  flashing.  For  the  earl — not  a 
muscle  of  his  well-trained  countenance  twitched,  not  a  shadow 
of  change  came  over  his  high-bred  face.  His  eye-glass  was 
still  held  to  his  eyes,  his  thin  lips  set  themselves  a  trifle  more 
closely — that  was  all. 

In  the  surprise  of  the  moment,  in  the  suddenness  of  the  inter- 
view, both  had  forgotten  where  they  were.  Neither  saw  a 
slender  figure  in  white  dinner  dress,  a  white  lace  mantilla 
thrown  over  its  head,  that  had  descended  from  the  portico  and 
approached  over  the  velvet  turf.  The  last  words  of  Henry 
Otis  reached  her.  She  stopped  as  if  shot.  The  memorable 
King's  Oak  was  near — under  its  dark,  wide  shadow  she  stood 
still  to  listen. 

"This  is  a  marvelous  statement,  Mr.  Otis,"  the  peer  said, 


placid  face. 
nily  at  Henry 

nieaningly. 
'11  excuse  me 
^ou  any  more 
For  if  you 
lited.  In  ten 
the  few  fixed 
er  to  be  late 

lieve  me,  of 
mad  and  pre- 
sten  to  me — 
ry  your  mind 
to  remember 

Will   you 
3ubling  your- 
and  what  I 

y  Otis  cried, 
private  here, 
my  assertion 
what  I  say. 
'ou  the  child 
T  oi  the  late 

=e  of  Henry 
earl— not  a 
3t  a  shadow 
/e-glass  was 
trifle  more 

of  the  inter- 
ther  saw  a 
=e  mantilla 
)ortico  and 
'  of  Henry 
memorable 
'  she  stood 

peer  said, 


77/47"  NIGHT. 


521 


with  perfect  calm.  "Will  you  pardon  me  once  more  if  I  find 
it  impossible  to  believe  it  ?  Harriet  Harnian  gave  mt  her 
child  -Mstead  of  mine  twenty  years  ago!  What  egregious  non- 
sense is  this — taken  second-hand  from  one  of  last  century's 
lomances?  I  can  only  wonder  at  a  gentleman  of  your  good 
sense  repeating  it." 

"  Taken  from  a  romance,  or  what  you  please,  my  lord," 
I  leiiry  Otis  said,  doggedly,  "  but  true — true  as  Heaven  is  above. 
us.  Harriet  Harnian  swore  vengeance  upon  your  wife  for 
separating  her  from  her  lover,  and  that  vengeance  she  wreaked 
on  her  child.  I  repeat  it — she  changed  them.  Her  child  was 
a  month  old  when  yours  was  born — your  lordship  knew  or 
cared  norliing  about  it — never  saw  it  until  it  was  given  to  you 
as  your  own.  You  saw  nothing  of  your  own  either  from  the 
tlay  of  its  birth.  Again  I  repeat,  when  you  returned  to  Eng- 
land and  Mrs.  Harman,  she  gave  you  her  own  daughter  and 
retained  yours.  The  young  lady  whom  you  have  brought  up, 
whom  you  call  I^ady  Cecil  Clive,  is  in  reality  Katherine  Har- 
man." 

There  was  a  sobbing  cry  from  beneath  the  tree.  Neither 
heard  it.     H!s  lordship  made  a  step  forward. 

"  You  villain  !  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper  ; 
"  by  Heaven  !   I'll  throttle  you  if  you  repeat  that  lie  !  " 

"'It  is  the  truth,"  Henry  Otis  retorted,  in  cold  disdain.  "I 
can  prove  it.  Harriet  Harman  is  here — ready  to  swear  to  what 
I  say." 

"And  do  you  think  I  would  believe  her  oath  if  she  did ! " 
Lord  Ruysland  cried  ;  but  his  face  grew  a  dreadful  livid  gray  as 
he  said  it.  *'  This  is  some  nefarious  plot  got  up  between  you 
to  Gxtort  money,  no  doubt,  but — " 

He  stopped.  Henry  Otis  turned  his  back  upon  him  in  con- 
tempt. 

"  I  see  it  is  useless  talking  to  you.  A  court  of  law,  perhaps, 
will  be  more  easily  convinced.  Harriet  Harman  is  here,  and 
ready  to  repeat  the  story.  Once  more  I  assert  Katherine 
Dangerfield  is  your  daughter — she  who  is  known  as  the  Lady 
Cecil  Clive  is  not.  Before  you  are  a  week  older  I  think  even 
} our  incredulity  will  be  staggered.  I  have  the  honor  to  \.ish 
}our  lordship  good-evening.  There  is  the  dinner-bell.  As 
your  lordship's  fixed  principles  are  so  few,  don't  let  me  be  the 
man  to  infringe  the  most  important  of  them." 

He  lifted  his  hat  in  mocking  salute  and  turned  to  go.  But 
bis  lordship  strode  forward  and  caught  him  by  the  shoulder. 


I 


I 


j 


|i 


532 


THAT  NIGIIT. 


"  Stay  ! "    he  said,  in  a  ringing  tone  of  command.     "  Yoii 
liave  said  either  too  much  or  too  httlc.     Why  do  you  repeat 
Kathorine  Dangerficld  is  my  daughter?     Kalherinc  Dangci 
ficUl  is  dead." 

Mr.  Otis  smiled,  and  drew  himself  away. 

"  I  decline  to  say  more  to  your  lordship  at  i)resent.  I  tell 
)()u  tlie  truth,  and  you  accuse  me  of  a  lie.  That  is  sufficient. 
Harriet  Harman  is  at  IJracken  Hollow — either  to-night  ci  .0- 
morrow  your  lordship  can  see  her  there.  If  you  refuse  to  be- 
lieve what  she  says,  the  matter  shall  be  placed  in  the  hands  of 
justice.  Kalherine  Dangerficld,  whether  living  or  dead,  shall 
be  avenged." 

He  paused.  During  the  last  five  minutes  a  sudden  red, 
meteor-like  light  had  flashed  up  in  the  gray  southern  sky. 
AVhilst  he  talked  it  had  steadily  increased — brighter  and  broader 
— redder  and  fiercer  it  grew — it  could  be  onl^  one  thing — fire  ! 
At  that  instant  there  came  clashing  across  the  twilight  stillness, 
the  fire  bells  of  the  town — the  red  light  in  the  sky  growing 
redder  and  redder. 

•"  Fire  !"  Henry  Otis  exclaimed,  knitting  his  brows,  "and  in 
that  direction.  There  is  no  hoii  ^e  there  but  IJracken  Hollow. 
W'hat  if  that  lunatic,  Dantree,  has  got  out  of  his  room  and  suc- 
ceeded in  what  he  has  attempted  so  often — setting  fire  to  the 
house ! " 

Clash  !  clang  !  The  fire  alarm  grew  louder,  the  flames  were 
shooting  up  into  the  soft  gray  sky.  One  of  the  grooms  came 
gallo[)ing  up  the  avenue,  flinging  himself  out  of  the  saddle  at 
sight  of  the  earl. 

"  Where's  the  fire,  my  man?"  Otis  called. 

"  At  Bracken  Hollow,  zur ;  and  it  be  all  ablaze  as  I  coora 
cop — "  But  Otis  did  not  wait  for  the  completion  of  the  sen- 
tence. With  one  bound  he  was  on  the  back  of  the  horse,  and 
dashing  down  the  avenue  like  the  wind. 

"  I  might  have  known,"  he  said  between  his  clenched  teeth, 
"  what  would  come  of  keei)ing  Hannah  with  Harriet  Harman. 
l^antree  has  got  free,  and  found  the  matches,  and  succeeded  at 
last  in  what  he  has  failed  so  often — setting  fire  to  Bracken  Hol- 
low." 

I'hc  horse  was  a  fleet  one  ;  he  darted  onward  like  an  arrow. 
Ten  minutes  brought  him  to  Bracken  Hollow.  There  was  no 
wind,  but  the  old  house  was  like  tinder,  and  shrivelled  up  at 
once.  It  looked  all  one  sheet  of  fire  as  he  threw  himself  off 
tht  lioirse  and  rushed  towards  it. 


I'limand.  "  Yoii 
(y  do  you  rojicat 
Micrinc  Dangci 


ll'resent.  f  tell 
mat  is  .sufTicient. 
r  to-nigin  ti  .o- 
pii  refuse  to  hc- 
''1  tlie  hands  of 
»'■  'lead,  sliall 

a  sudden  red, 
'  southern  sky. 
>'<-•>•  and  broader 

U-    fhillg-_y7;>^/ 

;\'l'^'ht  stillness, 
e  sky  growing 

brows,  "and  in 

racken  Moliovv. 

room  and  suc- 

ting  fire  to  the 

he  flames  were 

'  grooms  came 

the  saddle  at 


^ze  as  r  coom 
on  of  the  sen- 
'he  horse,  and 

enched  teeth, 
■riet  Hai-man. 
succeeded  at 
Bracken  Ifol- 

ke  an  arrow. 
'Iiere  was  no 
veiled  up  at 
V  himself  off 


r//Ar  NIGHT. 


523 


There  was  a  crowd  collected,  but  the  fire  engines  had  not 
yet  arrived.  Little  use  their  coming  now.  At  the  instant  he 
appeared  old  Hannah  came  rushing  headlong  out. 

"Save  him  for  Heaven's  sake  I  "  she  cried,  "if  ye  be  men 
will  ye  stand  there  and  see  a  fellow  creature  burned  to  death 
before  your  eyes?  I've  lost  the  key  of //^r  room.  Come — 
come — and  burst  open  the  door." 

"What  is  it,  Hannah?"  called  Henry  Otis  ;  "  where  is  Dan- 
tree  and  Mrs.  Harman  ?  " 

"Oh,  thank  Heaven  you're  here!  Mrs.  Harman  is  locked 
up  in  her  rocin  now  and  I  can't  find  the  key.  Come  and  break 
it  open  for  the  1/  rd's  sake.  And  he  is  I  don't  know  where — no 
one  has  ever  seiu  him  yet." 

"  I  le  has  made  his  escape,  no  doubt.  Stand  aside,  Hannah, 
or  (lie  woman  will  be  burned  to  death." 

There  was  an  axe  in  the  porch.  He  seized  it  and  rushed 
headlong  through  flames  and  smoke  towards  Mrs.  Harman's 
room.  Her  ringing  screams  broke  over  everything  now.  He 
struck  at  the  door  with  all  his  mi/^ht,  but  it  was  strong  and  re- 
sisted. "  Stand  from  the  door,"  he  shouted  to  her  within,  "  and 
be  quiet ;  I  will  save  you."  He  struck  it  again  and  again  ;  it 
yielded  to  the  fifdi  blow,  and  went  ^'ashing  into  the  room. 
She  was  standing,  in  spite  of  his  warning,  directly  opposite ;  it 
struck  her  heavily  and  felled  her  to  the  floor.  He  sprung  in 
and  drew  her  from  beneath.  The  sharp  angle  of  the  oak  door 
liad  struck  her  on  the  head  near  the  temple  ;  a  great  stream  of 
blood  was  pouring  over  her  face  as  he  lifted  her.  The  fire 
was  already  surging  through  the  open  door.  He  bowed  his 
head  over  her,  and  with  his  burden  rushed  out  of  the  doomed 
house. 

He  laid  her  on  the  ground  senseless,  bleeding.  As  he  did 
so  a  mighty  shout  arose,  then  died  away  in  a  low  moan  of  hor- 
ror. Far  up  on  the  leads  of  the  blazing  building,  far  beyond 
all  human  aid,  appeared  a  wild  figure — the  figure  of  a  young 
man — with  dark  streaming  hair,  white  face,  and  black,  maniac 
eyes.     It  was  Gaston  Dantree. 

The  flames  shot  lurid  and  crimson  up  around  him,  higher 
than  his  head.  His  wild,  mad  cries  of  exultation  rang  shrilly 
out — his  laughter  curdled  the  blood  of  the  ''steners.  "  Ha  I 
ha  !  "  they  heard  him  shout.  "  I  told  her  I'd  do  it,  and  I've 
done  it.     Here's  a  fire,  and  I'm  free,  I'm  free,  I'm  free  !" 

The  red  flames,  the  black  smoke,  hid  him  from  their  view ; 
then  with  a  dreadful  roar  the  fire  leaped  up  higher  than  ever, 


I 


I 


524    ^Or  /,  BUT  FATE,  HATH  DEALT  THIS  BLOW. 

and  the  roof  fell  in  with  a  crash.     The  strongest,  the  hardest 
there,  turned  away  and  covered  their  eyes,  sick  with  liorror. 

Six  years  before,  Gaston  Dantree  had  shuddered  with  vague 
nameless  fear  as  he  first  looked  on  Bracken  Hollow.  That 
presentiment  was  fulfilled — strangely — terribly.  For  five  years 
Bracken  Hollow  had  been  his  prison  ! — this  fearful  August  even- 
ing it  was  his  grave  ! 


.i:.i. 
u- 
-\^-' 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 


"NOT   I,    BUT   FATE,    HATH   DEALT  THIS   BLOW." 

WELVE  !  by  the  steeple  of  Casdeford  High  street ; 
twelve  !  by  the  loud-voiced  clock  of  the  Scarswood 
stables.  In  the  intense,  sultry  silence  of  the  August 
night,  the  sharp,  metallic  strokes  came  even  into  that 
upper  chamber  of  the  Silver  Rose,  where,  upon  the  big,  cur- 
tained, old-fashioned  four-poster  in  which  Mrs.  Vavasor  and 
Rose  O'Donnell  had  both  slept,  Harriet  Harman  lay  dying. 

Dying  !  No  earthly  aid  could  reach  her  now.  The  blow  of 
the  heavy,  iron-studded  door  had  done  its  v/ork.  Doctor 
Gra  -es  went  into  learned  medical  details  of  the  injury  done 
the  brain,  and  out  of  l.iat  obscure  detail  one  terrible  fact  stood 
clear — she  was  dying  !  Katherine  had  spared  her,  and  in  that 
very  hour  Death  had  sealed  her  for  his  own.  Her  life  of  sin, 
of  piouing,  of  all  evil  and  wrong-doing  was  rapidly  drawing  to  a 
close  ;  the  midnight  hour  booming  solemnly  through  the  quiet 
town,  was  ushering  in  the  eternal  night  for  her. 

A  smouldering  heap  of  charred  and  burning  ruins  was  all  that 
remained  of  P^-acken  Hollow.  To-morrow,  among  the  debris, 
search  would  be  instituted  for  the  bones  of  the  wretched  victim 
ofhis  own  insanity.  It  had  been  his  mania  from  the  first  to 
escape.  Dozens  of  times  he  had  attempted  to  fire  the  house, 
and  old  Hannah's  constant  vigilance  had  baffled  him.  Busied 
\\'\\\\  the  care  of  Mrs.  Harman,  he  had  been  overlooked  that 
day,  and  the  result  was  his  escape  from  his  room,  and  the  con- 
summation of  his  purpose.  The  house  was  enveloped  in  flames 
before  Hannah  was  aware.  She  had  lain  down  to  take  a  nap, 
and  it  was  the  cry  of  fire,  and  its  dull  roar  around,  that  awoke 


"^fflS  BLOW. 

/est,  the  hardest 

Ik  with  horror. 

*ered  with  vague 

Hollow.     That 

For  five  years 

"ul  August  even- 


NOT  I,  BUT  FATE,  HATH  DEALT  THIS  BLOW. 


525 


BLOW." 

■d  High  street; 
the  Scarswood 
e  of  the  August 
e  even  into  that 
311  the  big,  cur- 
^s.  Vavas»r  and 
an  lay  dying. 
^-     'J'he  blow  of 
v.'ork.     Doctor 
the  injury  done 
■nble  fact  stood 
fier,  and  in  that 
Her  life  of  sin, 
ly  drawing  to  a 
ongh  the  quiet 

ins  was  all  that 
'ng  the  d6bris, 
retched  victim 
"    the  first  to 
're  the  house, 
him.     Busied 
eriooked  that 
and  the  con- 
Ped  in  fiames 
5  take  a  nap, 
!,  that  awoke 


lier.  Bewildered  by  sleep  and  fear,  she  lost  all  presence  of 
mind,  forgot  her  two  charges,  and  rushed  forth.  What  she  had 
done  ivilh  the  key  of  her  latest  prisoner's  room  she  could  not 
recollect ;  the  breaking  in  and  fall  of  the  door  did  the  rest. 

They  were  all  at  the  Silver  Rose — Henry  Otis,  old  Hannah, 
Lord  Ruysland,  and — Lady  Cecil  Clive.  She  had  glided  in 
among  them  an  hour  before — a  gray  ashen  pallor  on  her  face, 
a  deep  strange  horror  in  her  eyes,  but  calm  beyond  all  telling ; 
shj  walked  alone  from  Scarswood ;  she  had  heard  every  word 
of  Henry  Otis's  interview  with  the  earl ;  she  had  neither  fainted 
nor  fallen  ;  she  had  only  sat  down  on  a  primrose  knoll,  feeling 
stunned  and  stijpid-  In  that  state  she  saw  Mr.  Otis  mount  the 
groom's  horse  and  dash  away  like  a  madman  ;  she  had  heard 
her  father  call  his,  and  dash  after  ;  she  saw  the  red  light  in  the 
sky,  and  kn.iw  in  a  vague,  dreamy  sort  of  way,  that  it  was  afire. 
And  then  her  mind,  without  any  volition  of  her  own,  went  back 
and  repeated  over  and  over  the  strange  words  this  strange  man 
had  said  : 

"  Lady  Cecil  Clive  is  not  your  daughter — her  name  is  Kath- 
erine  Hannan,  The  children  were  changed  at  nurse — your 
daughter  was  Katherine  Dangerfield." 

"  Katherine  Dangerfield !"  She  repeated  the  name  vaguely, 
pulling  the  primroses  and  mechanically  arranging  them  in  a  bou- 
quet. She  felt  no  pain — no  terror — no  disbelief — only  that 
stunned  numbness.  And  still  her  mind  persistently  took  up  the 
tale  and  repeated  it.  "  Not  Lord  Rnysland's  daughter  ! — whose, 
thjn,  was  she  ?  This  Mrs.  Harman  he  spoke  of  had  been  the 
nurse — and  the  nurse  had  given  Lord  Ruysland  her  own  child. 
If  so,  then  Mrs.  Harman  must  be  her  mother.  The  thread  of 
thought  broke  here.  She  arranged  the  primroses  in  a  different 
flishion,  twisting  a  blade  of  grass  about  the  stems.  Then  like 
a  fiash  memory  pinioned  her  thoughts.  Her  mother  !  Her 
mother,  a  guilty,  lost  woman,  and  she — she  not  Lord  Ruys- 
lanil's  daugliter,  the  upstart  usurper  of  another's  rights. 

Tiie  fiowers  droi)ped  from  her  fingers,  she  started  to  her  feet 
with  a  low,  wailing  cry.  No  more  merciful  apathy,  no  more 
stupor  of  mind.  Clear  as  the  crimson  light  yonder  in  the  twi- 
liglii  sky  the  whole  truth  burst  upon  her.  She  was  not  Lord 
Ruysland's  daughter — she  was  a  usurper,  and  as  such  about  to 
be  shown  to  the  world — no  peeress  of  England,  but  the  child 
of  a  guilty,  designing  servant  woman. 

Slie  staggered  as  she  stood,  and  grasped  the  branch  of  a  tree. 
Her  hands  flew  up  and  covered  her  face — one  heart-broken  sob 


1 1 


tffi 


h 


'  *; 


5i 


.5  ! 


ii'. 


% 


i! 


1-^ 


526     ^OT  /,  BUT  FATE,   IIATII  DEALT  THIS  BLOW. 

broke  from  her.  She  was  very  proud — sweet,  gentle,  gracious, 
all  womanly  she  war,,  but  even  that  sweet  graciousness  arosu 
out  of  her  pride.  The  daughter  of  a  "belted  carl"  can  afford 
to  wear  a  smile  for  all  less-favored  mortals.  She  had  been 
intensely  proud  of  the  name  and  rank  she  bore — of  the  noble  |r 
line  of  ap-^f'try  stretching  back  to  the  Norman  William  ;  every 
stone,  e^  jry  v.ee  around  dear,  old,  ivied  Clive  Court,  she  loved 
like  living  things.  Her  very  pride  had  made  her  accept  what 
had  galled  that  pride  most — the  formal  offer  of  Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
genna.  He  bore  a  name  as  old,  nay  older,  than  her  own  ;  the 
I'regennas  had  been  barons  and  warriors  in  the  reign  of  Edward 
the  Confessor — the  old  glory  of  the  house  of  Ruysland  would 
be  restored  by  this  alliance.  Had  the  man  she  loved  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife,  to  go  with  him  and  share  his  poverty  and 
obscurity — the  chances  are,  loving  him  with  a  desperate,  pas- 
sionate love  as  she  did,  she  might  still  have  refused  him.  And 
now  ! 

Her  hands  dropped  from  before  her  face — she  stood  cold, 
and  white,  and  still.  It  was  the  righteous  punishment  of  such 
pride  as  hers,  such  selfishness — such  an  outrage  on  all  that  was 
best  and  most  womanly  within  her.  Of  all  the  men  the  world 
held,  she  loved  but  one ;  handsomer,  :)obler,  more  talented, 
had  asked  her  to  be  their  wife,  but  her  heart  had  been  like  a 
stone  to  all.  Redmond  O'Donnell  she  had  loved  from  the 
first.  Redmond  O'Donnell  she  would  love  until  she  died. 
And  with  heart  full  to  overflowing  with  that  passionate  love, 
she  had  yet  been  ready  to  become  the  wife  of  another  man. 
That  man's  pride  of  birth  and  station  was  equal  to  her  own — 
what  could  he  say  to  this  ? 

"  Fire — fire  ! "  The  servants  were  echoing  the  cry  and 
rushing  to  the  highest  points,  where  they  could  see  it  best.  It 
was  nothing  to  her  ;  she  drew  back  behind  the  tree,  and  stood 
looking  blankly,  blindly  before  her.  The  child  of  a  servant !  a 
usurper  !  The  world  seemed  rocking  under  her  feet — the  trees 
swimming  round.  Why  had  she  not  died  before  the  truth  was 
told  ?  The  night  fell — the  dew  with  it ;  she  still  stood  there, 
heedless.  She  heard  with  preternatural  distinctness,  the  loud 
contending  voices  of  ihe  servants  announcing  the  whereabouts 
of  the  fire.  The  servants  !  It  came  to  her  that  she  should  be 
one  of  them — that  her  birthright  had  been  the  servants'  hall, 
not  the  drawing-room.  Strangely  enough  she  had  never 
thought  of  doubting — she  had  se m  Henry  Otis'  face — heard  his 
voice,  and  felt,  she  knew  not  how,  that  he  had  told  the  truth. 


THIS  BLOIV. 

gentle,  gracious, 
■aciousness  aros(» 
'  earl "  can  afford 
She  had  been 
re— -of  the  noble  ^ 
II  William  ;  every 
Court,  she  loved 
her  accept  what 
Sir  Arthur  Tre- 
Ian  her  own  ;  the 
-  reign  of  Edward 
Ruysland  would 
she  loved  asked 
J  his  poverty  and 
a  desperate,  pas- 
fused  him.     And 

-she  stood  cold, 
lishment  of  such 
:e  on  all  that  was 
e  men  the  world 
^  more  talented, 
had  been  like  a 
loved  from  the 
until  she  died, 
passionate  love, 
3f  another  man. 
d  to  her  own — 

I    the   cry  and 

see  it  best.     It 
tree,  and  stood 
of  a  servant !  a 
feet—the  trees 
e  the  truth  was 
ill  stood  there, 
tness  the  loud 
ie  whereabouts 
she  should  be 
servants'  hall, 
■Je   had    never 
ice — heard  his 
Ifl  the  truth. 


NOT  /,  BUT  FATE,   HATH  DEALT  THIS  BLOW. 


527 


Presently  came  a  messenger  rushing  breathless  from  the 
town,  full  of  the  exciting  news.  Bracken  Hollow  was  burned 
to  the  ground ;  a  njan,  nobody  knew  who — burned  to  death 
with  it,  and  a  woman  killed.  They  had  taken  the  woman  to  the 
Silver  Rose ;  she  was  not  quite  dead  yet,  it  seemed,  and  my 
lord  had  gone  after  her,  and  was  there  now.  The  woman's 
name  had  leaked  out  somehow — it  was  Mrs.  Harman. 

Mrs.  Harman  I  Her  mother !  It  flashed  upon  her  what 
Mr.  Otis  had  said — Mrs.  Harman  had  been  imprisoned  at 
Bracken  Hollow  to  confess  the  truth,  and  now  lay  dying  at  the 
Silver  Rose.  Her  mother  I  Guilty  or  not — lost,  wretched, 
abandoned — still  her  mother.  She  started  up — all  stupor,  all 
pride  gone  forever.  She  walked  to  the  house — ran  up  to  her 
own  room — threw  oft"  her  light  muslin  and  costly  laces,  re- 
placed them  by  a  dress  of  dark  gray,  a  summer  shawl  and  hat. 
Then  five  minutes  after  was  walking  rapidly  toward  th£  town. 
She  had  told  no  one,  Ginevra  was  absorbed  in  her  own  troubles, 
and  there  was  no  time  for  explanations.  An  hour  before  mid- 
night she  reached  the  Silver  Rose. 

A  crowd  of  the  town  people  were  still  gathered  excitedly 
before  it.  A  man  burned  to  death — a  woman  killed — Bracken 
Hollow  in  ashes — not  often  was  Castleford  so  exercised  as  this. 
And  the  dying  woman  must  be  somebody  of  importance,  since 
my  lord  himself  refused  to  leave  the  inn  until  her  fate  was  one 
way  or  other  decided. 

They  fell  back  wondering  and  respectful  as  Lady  Cecil  Clive 
drew  near.  Were  they  asleep  or  awake  ?  Lord  Ruysland's 
only  daughter,  alone  and  on  foot,  in  Castleford  at  this  hour. 
She  passed  through  them  all — never  seeing  them — seeing 
nothing,  it  seemed.  The  soft  hazel  eyes  had  a  blind,  sightless, 
s]eei)-waking  so'-t  of  stare — her  face  was  all  drawn  and  white. 
In  the  passage  she  came  face  to  face  with  the  landlord.  The 
dark,  solemn  eyes  looked  at  him. 

"  Lord  Ruysland  is  here,"  the  pale  lips  said,  "  take  me  to 
him." 

The  man  drew  back  a  step — that  nameless  something  in  her 
colorless  face  terrified  him. 

"Take  me  to  him,"  she  repeated,  "at  once." 

He  bowed  low  and  led  the  way.  Who  was  the  dying  woman 
upstairs,  that  Lord  Ruysland  and  his  daughter  should  trouble 
themselves  like  this  ?  He  had  not  seen  her  face — probably 
would  not  have  recalled  it  if  he  had.  His  lordship  was  not  in 
the  sick  chamber,  but  in  the  little  parlor  adjoining — the  little 


'  . 


I 


1 

i 


528    NOT  r,  BUT  FATE,   HATH  DEALT  THIS  BLOW. 


parlor,  where,  one  other  night,  six  years  before,  Sir  John  Dan- 
gerfield's  adopted  daughter  had  waited  to  see  Mrs.  Vavasor. 
He  was  walking  very  slowly  and  softly  up  and  down,  his  brow 
knit  with  a  reflective  frown — one  white,  slender  hand  thrust 
inside  his  coat.  He  looked  up,  and  saw,  without  warning  of 
any  sort,  Cecil.  He  absolutely  recoiled — the  sight  of  her,  at 
that  hour,  in  this  place,  and  wearing  that  face,  so  startled  him 
that  for  a  second's  time  he  lialf  doubted  if  it  were  not  her  wraith. 

*'  Queenie  !  "  he  gasped. 

"  Yes,  papa — Queenie."  She  came  forward  and  stood  before; 
him.  "I  was  in  the  groimds,"  she  continued,  with  perfect 
abniptness,  "very  near  you,  when  Mr.  Otis  came  and  told  you 
his  story.     I  heard  it  all.     It  is  true,  I  suppose,  papa  ?  " 

He  stood  silent — speechless — looking  at  her  in  wonder  and 
doubt. 

"  It  is  true,  I  suppose  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  What  is  true  ?  " 

"  That  I  am  not  your  daughter — that  Katherine  Dangerfield 
was.    That  I  am  the  daughter  of  the  woman  dying  in  that  room." 

He  was  a  man  ordinarily  very  chary  of  caresses,  but  he  was 
.  fond  of  the  girl  he  had  believed  his  daughter — he  was  fond  of 
her  still.  Her  beauty  and  her  elegance  had  gratitied  his  pride  ; 
her  gentle,  tender,  winning  ways  had  won  his  heart — or,  at 
least,  as  much  heart  as  that  noble  lord  had  to  win.  He  took 
her  in  his  arms  now  and  kissed  her. 

"  N[y  dear,"  he  said  very  gently,  "  I  hope  you  know  me  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that,  whether  it  is  true  or  false,  you  will 
still  be  the  same  to  me — the  daughter  I  love  and  am  proud 
of.  I  wish  you  need  never  have  heard  it ;  but,  since  it  must" 
come,  I  am  thankful  I  am  not  the  one  to  break  it  to  you.  It 
is  a  very  terrible  and  shocking  affair  from  first  to  last ;  I  feel 
almost  too  stunned  to  realize  it  yet." 

*'  It  is  perfectly  true,  then  ?" 

"  Well — yes,  Queenie — I  am  afraid  it  is." 

Had,  all  unknown  to  herself,  some  dim,  shadowy  hope  still 
lingered  in  her  breast  that  it  might  not  be  true  ?  The  sharpest 
pang  she  had  felt  yet  pierced  her  as  she  heard  his  quiet  words. 
\Vith  a  sort  of  gasp  her  head  fell  on  his  shoulder  and  lay  there. 

"  My  poor  little  Queenie,"  he  said,  tenderly,  "  it  is  hard  on 
you.  Confound  Otis  !  Why  the  devil  couldn't  he  keep  the 
nefiirious  story  to  himself?  /was  satisfied — where  ignorance 
is  bliss  'twere  folly  to  be  wise.  You  are  the  only  daughter  I 
want,  and  the  other  poor  girl  is  dead — can't  do  her  any  good 


THIS  BLOW, 

e,  Sir  John  Dan- 
e  Mrs.  Vavasor, 
down,  his  brow 
ider  hand  thrust 
thout  warning  of 
sight  of  her,  at 
so  startled  him 
re  not  her  wraith. 

and  stood  before; 
ed,  with   perfect 
me  and  told  you 
e,  papa?" 
T  in  wonder  and 


rine  Dangerfield 
ng  in  that  room." 
;sses,  but  he  was 
—he  was  fond  of 
atified  his  pride  ; 
lis  heart — or,  at 
)  win.     He  took 

)u  know  me  well 
r  false,  you  will 
e  and  am  proud 
It,  since  it  must' 
ik  it  to  you.  It 
to  last ;  I  feel 


dowy  hope  still 
'  The  sharpest 
liis  quiet  words, 
r  and  lay  there. 
"  it  is  hard  on 
't  he  keep  the 
liere  ignorance 
)nly  daughter  I 
)  her  any  good 


NOT  /,  BUT  FATE,  HATE  DEALT  THIS  BLOW. 


529 


now.  But  remember,  Qucenie,  whatever  comes  of  it,  I  look 
upon  you  still  as  my  daughter — all  the  Otises  and  Harmans  on 
earth  shall  not  separate  you  and  me.  As  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna's 
wife  we  can  afford  to  despise  their  malice." 

She  shivered  slightly  at  the  sound  of  that  name — then  she 
lifted  her  head  and  drew  herself  away  from  him. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  you  know  why  I  have  come  here.  If— 
I  moan  since  she  is  my  mother — I  must  see  her.  Oh,  papa.  I 
must  /  She  has  done  a  terrible  wrong,  but  she  is  dying,  and — " 
the  agony  within  her  broke  into  a  wailing  sob  here — "I  can't 
believe  it — I  can't — unless  I  hear  it  from  her  own  lips.  Take 
me  to  her,  papa — please." 

"  I  doubt  if  she  will  ever  speak  to  any  one  in  this  world 
again — still  the  doctors  say  she  may.  Graves  and  Otis  are 
with  her.     I'll  ask  them  if  they'll  admit  you." 

He  tapped  at  the  door. 

The  pale  face  of  Henry  Otis  looked  out.  As  his  eyes  fell 
on,  the  tall,  slender,  elegant  figure  of  the  young  lady,  even  he 
shrank. 

"  ATy  daughter  is  here,"  the  earl  said  coldly.  *•  She  knows 
all.  She  wishes  to  see  Mrs.  Harman,  to  hear,  if  it  be  possible 
for  Mrs.  Harman  to  speak — confirmation  of  your  story  from 
her  lips.  I  think  even  you  will  allow,  Mr.  Otis,  this  is  no  more 
than  her  right." 

"  It  is  her  right,"  Henry  Otis  said  calmly. 

He  bowed  to  the  queenly  form  and  lovely  face,  and  held  the 
door  wide  for  her  to  pass. 

"  You,  too,  my  lord,"  he  said.  "  She  is  dying,  but  she  is 
conscious,  and  she  has  spoken.  I  must  beg,"  he  looked  at 
Lady  Cecil,  "  that  you  will  be  very  quiet.  A  moment's  excite- 
ment would  be  fatal." 

She  bowed  her  head  and  glided  to  the  bedside.  In  the  dim 
light  of  the  shaded  lamp  she  looked  down  upon  the  dying  face. 
Even  to  her  inexperienced  eyes  the  dread  seal  of  death  lay 
there — the  fahit  breathing  was  not  audible,  the  eyes  were  closed 
— the  fingers  moved  a  little,  plucking  at  the  sheet.  Opposite 
stood  Dr.  Graves  holding  her  pulse  in  one  hand — his  watch  in 
the  other.  Lord  Ruysland  ^::rnj\ved  ivid  stood  beside  his 
daughter.     Henry  Otis  bent  over  her  and  tipoke. 

"  Mrs.  Harman,  Lord  Ruysland  is  here.  Can  you  speak  to 
him  ?  " 

The  eyelids  fluttered— lifted — the  great  dark  eyes  looked  up 
out  of  the  rigid  face,  and  fixed  at  once  upon  the  earl's. 


530    NOT  /,  BUT  FATE,   HATH  DEALT   THIS  BLOW: 


h- 1 


"  Harriet,"  he  said,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  old  name  the 
dying  face  lit.     "  You  kn».w  me,  do  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,"  very  faintly  the  word  came  ;  "  my  lord,  I — know 
you.     1  am  sorry — "  the  whisper  died  away. 

He  bent  close  above  her. 

"  Listen,  Harriet — speak  if  you  can — tell  the  truth  now. 
\<,  Henry  Otis'  story  true?  Was  it  your  child — your  own — you 
gave  me  twenty  years  ago,  or  mine?" 

"It  was  mhie — I  will  swear  it — if  you  like.  I  kept  yours. 
I  hated  my  lady.  I  swore  revenge.  She  parted  me  from  Lio- 
nel. Lionel !  Lionel !  "  Her  face  lit  again — the  old  love  of 
her  youth  came  back  !  The  old  love  !  mighty  beyond  all 
earthly  passion,  mighty  to  Dreak  prison  bars,  to  compass  the 
earth,  to  cross  oceans,  to  endure  in  the  very  throes  of  death. 

Lord  Ruysland  bent  closer  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Look,  Harriet,"  he  said  ;  "  look  at  this  face  beside  me.  It 
is  the  child  you  gave  me — that  I  love.  Tell  me  again,  as  God 
hears  and  will  judge  you,  is  she  yours  or  mine  ?  " 

The  dark  eyes  turned  upon  the  lovely,  youthful  face.  She 
sank  on  her  knees,  and  came  very  near  that  dying  face. 

"  She  is — uiine — as  (}od  hears  a-.id  will  judge  me — mine,  Kath- 
erine  Harman.  Yours  1  gave  to  Sir  John  Dangerfield.  Her 
grave  is  in  Castleford  Churchyard,  and  I  saw  her — saw  her — 
two  nights  ago." 

Lord  Ruysland  looked  at  Henry  Otis. 

"  She  saw  Helen  Herncastle,"  Llenry  Otis  answered,  with 
rigidly  compressed  lips. 

"  1  did  you  great  wrong,"  the  dying  lips  whispered  again — the 
dying  eyes  turning  once  more  to  the  earl.  The  sight  of  her 
child  seemed  to  wake  no  emotion  whatever  within  her.  "  I 
hf  ted  my  lady — I  swore  revenge — and  I  took  ir.  I  kept  her 
child.  She  parted  me  from  Lionel.  He  loved  me — Lionel  I 
Lionel  ! " 

The  faintly  whispering  voice  died  away — she  never  spoke 
again.  Lady  Cecil's  face  lay  buried  iii  her  hands — on  the  oth- 
ers dead  silence  fell.  The  eyes  closed,  a  spasm  shook  her 
from  head  to  foot.  '■^ Lionel^'  the  lii)s  seemed  to  form  once, 
then  there  was  a  moment's  quiet,  a  strong  shiver,  and  with  it 
the  last  llickcr  of  the  lamp  went  out.  And  death  stood  in  the 
midst  of  thim. 

"  Come  away,  my  darling,"  the  earl  whispered  tenderly  in 
Lady  Ceci''s  ear. 

Two  sightless  eyes  look  up  at  him,  blind  with  dumb  misery— 


THIS  BLOm, 
ne  old  name  the 
IV  lord,  I— know 

the  truth    now. 
— your  own — you 


e. 


Ill 


She 


I  kept  yours. 
rteti  me  from  Lio- 
—  the  old  love  of 
ghty  beyond  all 
3,  to  compass  the 
throes  of  death. 
mJ. 

LCtr  heside  me.  It 
me  again,  as  God 
;  ?  " 

)uthful  face, 
dying  face, 
nne — mine,  Kath- 
Jangerfield.  Her 
.w  her — saw  her — 


tis  answered,  with 

spered  again — the 
The  sight  of  her 
r  within  her.  "  I 
k  It.  I  kept  her 
v^eii  me — Lionel ! 

-she  never  spoke 
mds — on  the  oth- 
spasm  shook  her 
led  to  form  once, 
hiver,  and  with  it 
eath  stood  in  the 

)ered  tenderly  in 

th  dumb  misery— 


NOT  /,  BUT  FATE,  HATH  DEALT  THIS  BLOW. 


531 


then  with  a  gasp  the  tension  that  had  held  her  up  so  long  gave 
way.     She  fell  back  fainting  in  his  arms. 

The  blinds  were  closed — a  solemn  hush  lay  over  the  house. 
In  the  parlor  of  the  Silver  Rose  two  coffins  stood  on  tressels. 
In  one  the  body  of  Harriet  Harman  lay — in  the  other,  what 
they  had  found  in  the  ruins  of  Bracken  Hoh'ow. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day.  Over 
Scarswood  Park  summer  silence  and  summer  beauty  reigned. 
The  fish-pond  and  fountains  flashed  like  jewels  in  the  sunshine- 
turfy  lanes,  emerald  green — white,  pink,  and  crimson  August 
roses  nodded  their  fragrant  heads  in  the  sultry  heat.  The 
stone  terraces — the  great  urns  were  burnished  like  silver,  the 
leaves  of  the  copper  beeches  were  blood-red  rubies,  and  long 
lances  of  light  went  slanting  in  amid  the  waving  greenery  of 
fern.  The  i^eacock  strutted  unadmircd  in  the  sun,  bees 
boomed,  grasshoppers  chirped,  but  no  living  thing  was  to  be 
seen  around  the  grand  old  mansion.  Everywhere,  within  and 
without,  Sabbath  silence  reigned. 

The  Earl  of  Ruysland  was  alone  in  the  solitude  and  splendor 
of  the  drawing-rooms,  his  reflection  in  the  many  mirrors  meet- 
ing him  at  every  turn,  like  a  black-robed  ghost.  He  was  walk- 
ing up  and  down  as  Lady  Cecil  had  found  him  last  night — the 
same  thoughtful  frown  on  his  brow,  the  same  exasperated 
thought  still  uppermost. 

"  Why  the  deuce  couldn't  Otis  have  minded  his  business  and 
let  things  alone  ?  From  all  I  have  heard  of  the  other  one"  he 
resumed,  "I  was  much  better  off"  without  her.  She  w,"!.s  neither 
handsome  nor  amiable  ;  she  was  passionate,  headstrong,  willful, 
disobedient.  Cecil  is  none  of  these  things ;  she  has  been  a 
creditable  daughter  from  first  to  last.  And  they  say  blood 
tells.  Why  need  this  officious  fool,  this  meddlesome  Otis,  go 
raking  up  the  unpleasant  truth  ?  The  other  is  dead — it  can't 
benefit  her.  Cecil  is  alive,  and  it  will  make  her  wretched  all 
the  rest  of  her  life,  poor  child,  and  what — 7vhat  will  Sir  Arthur 
say?  One  consolation  is,  he  is  the  soul  incarnate  of  honor  : 
he  'von't  draw  back,  if  I  know  him  at  all;  I  believe  he  will 
only  press  his  suit  the  harder.  So  poor  Queenie  is  provided 
for  in  anv  case.  Ecrad  !  1  didn't  know  how  fond  I  was  of  her 
belore  \  't's  a  very  unpleasant  business  from  first  to  last,  and 
1  could  see  Otis  at  the  bottom  of  the  bottomless  pit  with  pleas- 
ure. It  must  be  hushed  up — at  any  price,  it  must  be  huslied 
up — for  \ny  sake,  for  my  late  wife's,  for  poor  Queenio's,  for  Sir 


532     NOT  I,  BUT  FATE,   HATH  DEALT  THIS  BLOW, 


\    'V 


I      1 


Arthur's.  The  devil  take  Otis  !  what  was  the  fool's  motive,  I 
wonder  ?  What — what  if  that  diabolical  Miss  Hcrncastle  has 
JKid  something  to  do  with  this,  too?  On  my  life,  she  has! 
Was  there  ever  an  internal  piece  of  mischief  let  loose  on  the 
earth  yet,  without  the  woman  being  the  instigator  ?  I  believe," 
— he  struck  his  hands  together — "  it  is  Miss  iJerncastle's 
handiwoik  from  first  to  last.     Well,  Soames,  what  now  ?" 

"The  post,  my  lord — letters  for  your  lordship." 

The  bowing  Soames  placed  a  silver  salver,  on  which  half  a 
dozen  letters  were  arranged,  before  his  lordship,  and  backed 
from  the  room. 

There  were  one  or  two  for  Lady  Cecil — one  from  Sir  Arthur 
Tregenna — two  for  Lady  Dangerfield,  and  two  for  himself.  The 
first  of  these  letters  was  on  business  from  his  solicitor,  the 
other  in  a  hand  that  was  new  to  him.  He  broke  it  open.  It 
was  lengthy.   He  glanced  at  the  name — "  Redmond  O'Donnell." 

"Now  what  does  O'Donnell  mean,  by  making  me  wade 
through  twelve  closely  written  pages?"  his  lordship  said  in  an 
aggrieved  tone.  "  How  little  consideration  some  people  have 
for  the  feelings  of  their  fellow-beings  !  I'll  look  over  it  at  least, 
1  suppose." 

He  adjusted  his  eye-glass,  smoothed  out  the  pages,  and  glanced 
through  them.  "  Miss  Herncastle  " — "  Katherine  Dangerfield" 
— what  did  it  mean  ?     Everywhere  those  two  names  ! 

His  lassitude  vanished.  He  began  at  the  beginning,  and 
slowly  and  carefully  read  the  letter  through.  His  face  changed 
as  it  had  not  changed  when  Otis  first  broke  to  him  the  news 
that  his  daughter  was  not  his  daughter.  Goodness  above  ! 
what  was  this  ?  Katherine  Dangerfield  not  dead  !  Katherine 
Dangerfield  and  Miss  Herncastle  one  and  the  same !  Kath- 
erine Dangerfield  his  daughter  !  Miss  Herncastle,  whom  he 
had  hunted  down,  whom  he  had  employed  a  detective  to 
track,  whom  he  had  driven  from  Scarswood  like  a  felon — Kath- 
erine Dangerfield  and  Miss  Herncastle  one  f  He  turned  sick. 
He  laid  down  the  letter — a  creeping  feeling  of  faintness  upon 
him — and  waited.  The  soft  breeze  of  the  summer's  eveninsj 
blew  on  his  face.  A  carafe  of  ice-water  stood  on  a  table.  He 
drank  a  glass,  took  a  turn  about  the  room,  sat  down  suddenly, 
and  read  the  letter  over  again. 

It  was  plainly  there — all  the  proofs,  one  after  another;  no 
doubting — no  disputing  now.  She  had  not  died  ;  Otis  knew  it 
and  had  not  told  him  this.  He  recalled  the  picture  of  Lionel 
Cardanell  in  the  possession  of  the  governess,  her  interest  in  the 


ins  BLOW, 

fool's  motive,  I 
Hcrncastle  has 
life,  she  has ! 
et  loose  on  the 
)r?    I  believe," 
iJerncastle's 
at  now  ?" 


HOW  IT  ENDED. 


533 


IS 


)n  which  half  a 
ip,  and  backed 

from  Sir  Arthur 
)r  himself.  The 
s  solicitor,  the 
ce  it  open.  It 
)ndO'Donnell." 
king  me  wade 
dship  said  in  an 
me  people  have 
over  it  at  least, 

ges,  and  glanced 
neDangerfield" 
ames ! 

beginning,  and 
lis  face  changed 
o  him  the  news 
odness  above  ! 
id !     Katherine 

same !  Kath- 
astle,  whom  he 
a  detective   to 

a  felon — Kath- 
He  turned  sick. 

faintness  upon 
nmer's  evening 
)n  a  table.  lie 
Jown  suddenly, 

ix  another;  no 
1 ;  Otis  knew  it 
:ture  of  Lionel 
■  interest  in  the 


story,  the  strong  likeness  to  his  dead  wife  that  had  struck  him 
the  first  time  he  saw  her.  The  ghost  and  the  resemblance  to 
Kalherine  Dangerfield  were  explained  now.  A  wig  and  dyed 
eyebrows  were  all  the  disguises  she  had  assumed.  What  a  bold 
game  she  had  played  I  And  Tregenna  had  fallen  in  love  with 
licr,  and  he  had  separated  them — forced  him  to  propose  to 
Harriet  Harman's  daughter.  His  daughter  lived — had  relented 
at  the  eleventh  hour — had  burned  the  confession — returned  Sir 
Peter  his  money—  renounced  her  retribution — and  gone  into 
tiie  world  alone  and  unaided  to  fight  the  bitter  battle  of  life. 

For  once  in  his  life,  cynicism,  philosoi)hy,  Voltairism  fell 
from  the  Earl  of  Ruysland  ;  for  once  all  the  creeds  of  his  train- 
ing and  his  order  were  powerless  to  help  him  bear  this.  Had 
Redmond  O'Donnell  ever  asked  for  revenge — had  he  seen  him 
then — even  he  might  have  been  amply  satisfied.  He  covered 
his  eyes  with  his  hand — struck  to  the  very  soul. 

"  Oh,  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  this  is  the  hardest  to  bear  of  all ! " 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


HOM^   IT   ENDED. 


T  was  a  brilliant  April  day. 

That  never-to-be-forgotten  August,  and  all  the 
bright  summer,  the  yellow  autumn,  the  chill  gray  win- 
ter months  had  worn  away.  March  had  howled  and 
blustered  through  the  leafless  trees  of  Scarswood  Park,  and  now 
April,  soft  and  sunny,  smiling  and  showering,  was  here,  clothing 
all  the  land  in  living  green. 

The  bright  afternoon  was  at  its  brightest,  as  Lady  Cecil  Clive 
took  her  seat  in  a  rustic  chair,  under  the  King's  Oak,  her  sketch- 
book in  her  lap,  the  flickering  lines  of  yellow  light  slanting  on 
her  uncovered  head.  Pearl  and  Pansy  played  at  hide-and-seek 
along  the  terraces  and  through  the  trees.  Lady  Dangerficld,  in 
the  drawing-room,  played  waltzes  on  the  piano  ;  and  Lady 
Cecil  let  book  and  pencils  fall  Hstlessly,  and  sat  "  lost  in  mem- 
ory's mazes." 

Eight  months  had  passed  and  gone  since  that  August  day 
when  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  had  stood  by  her  side  at  yonder 
sunny  boudoir  window  and  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.     Eight 


t  ', 


"  i 


534 


I/OH''  IT  ENDED. 


months  since,  in  the  hotel  ])arlor,  he  had  pleaded  with  her  to 
marry  bi'n — pleaded  while  all  his  heart  was  another's — i)leadod, 
and  in  vain. 

They  had  met  but  once  since  then,  and  then  how  ditTerenlly. 

lie  had  gone  abroad,  and  resumed  his  wandering  life.  Defore 
going,  however,  he  had  called  upon  Kalherir.e — a  most  unsat- 
isfactory and  embarrassing  meeting  for  both.  Why  he  had 
•^ow^  he  could  hardly  have  told;  some  "spirit  in  his  feet" 
— some  spirit  in  his  heart.  He  went  because  he  could  not  leave 
England  for  years  without  seeing  her.  There  was  very  little  to 
say  on  either  side — a  mutual  restraint  held  them — the  interview 
had  been  silent  and  short.  He  looked  into  the  i)ale,  grave, 
thoughtful  face,  into  the  sad,  large  eyes,  and  knew,  more 
strongly  than  he  had  ever  known  it  before,  that  this  woman, 
of  all  the  women  on  earth,  was  the  only  one  he  ever  had  or  ever 
would  love. 

And  knowing  it  he  had  left  her.  Was  it  not  wisest  ?  Earl 
Ruysland's  daughter  shi;  migh*-  be,  injured  beyond  all  repara- 
tion she  miglit  be,  but  also,  she  had  been  an  adventuress  none 
the  less.  He  was  very  proud — proud  of  his  old  lineage,  his 
S[)otless  name,  his  unstained  descent.  No  whisper  had  ever 
been  breathed  agamst  the  women  of  his  race  ;  should  he  be  the 
first  to  blot  their  escutcheon  ?  She  had  suffered  greatly,  but 
also  she  had  sinned.  She  had  plotted  and  worked  for  revenge. 
She  had  been  an  actress.  She  had  been  at  the  very  altar,  the 
bride  of  a  worthless  wretch.  She  had  stooj)ed  to  play  upon 
that  suj^erstitious  Sir  Peter's  fears — to  play  the  ghost.  She  had 
acted  a  lie,  acted  a  doubly  deceitful  jmrt,  gone  in  male  attire  to 
the  mastjuerade,  personated  Frankland,  and  separated  n;an  and 
wife.  And  last,  and  worst  of  all  in  this  dark  and  deadly  sum- 
ming up  of  crime,  she  had  palmed  herself  off  again,  of  course 
in  male  attire,  as  Gaston  Dantree,  and  with  the  coolness  and 
skill  of  a  Homburg  gambler,  won  froui  the  baronet  his  money. 

All  this  she  had  done.  He  might  be  in  love,  but  he  was  not 
blind — he  summed  up  the  evidence  mercilessly  against  her. 
True,  at  die  eleventh  hour  she  had  striven  to  repair  and  atone  ; 
but  can  any  reparation  or  atonement  ever  wash  out  guilt  on 
earth  ?  She  had  been  great  even  in  her  wrong-doing ;  but  such 
a  woman  as  this  was  no  wife  for  him.  And  he  turned  his  back 
resolutely  ujjon  England  and  her,  and  went  wandering  over  the 
world,  striving  to  forget. 

r.ut  forgetfulness  would  not  come.  "  How  is  it  under  our 
control  to  love  or  not  to  love  ?  "  He  could  not  banish  her 
memory,  or  the  love  with  which  she  had  inspired  him,  from  his 


tied  with  her  to 
hcr's— [)lcadcil, 


low  dilTerently. 

ig  Ufc.  Ik'forc 
— a  most  iinsat- 
iy//y  he  had 

it    in  hi.,  feet" 

i-ou/t/  not  leave 
'US  very  Httle  to 
— the  interview 
llie  pale,  grave, 
id  knew,  more 
at  this  woman, 
ver  had  or  ever 

:  wisest  ?  Kail 
ond  all  repara- 
venturess  none 
)ld  lineage,  his 
isper  had  ever 
lould  he  be  the 
'ed  greatly,  but 
ed  for  revenge. 

very  altar,  the 
[  to  play  upon 
lost.     She  had 

male  attire  to 
rated  man  and 
id  deadly  sum- 
fain,  of  course 
J  coolness  and 
let  his  money. 
)iit  he  was  not 
i_  against  her. 
lir  and  atone ; 
\  out  guilt  on 
ing ;  but  such 
irned  his  back 
firing  over  the 

it  under  our 
lot  banish  her 
him,  from  his 


HOW  IT  ENDED. 


535 


heart,  The  pale,  wistful  face,  the  dark,  sad  eyes  followed  him, 
h  united  him,  wherever  he  went.  And  just  three  months  after 
his  departure,  there  came  to  Miss  Dangerfield  a  letter,  post- 
marked Constantinople,  pouring  fo-th  all  his  doubts,  all  his 
scruples,  all  his  love — a  full  confession.  He  could  not  be 
hajjpy  without  her — would  she  be  his  wife  ? 

Her  answer  was  a  refusal. 

"  I  would  indeed  be  unworthy  the  great  compliment  you  pay 
me,'  she  wrote,  "if  J  accepted  your  generous  offer.  My  life 
has  gone  wrong  from  first  to  last ;  all  the  years  that  are  to  come 
will  be  too  few  for  atonement.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna's  wife  must 
be  above  reproach.  No  one  in  the  future  shall  lift  the  finger 
of  scorn,  and  say  the  last  of  a  noble  line  disgraced  it  by  mar- 
rying  me.  It  is  utterly  impossible.  Sir  Arthur,  that  I  can  be 
your  wife.  But  the  knowledge  that  I  once  won  a  heart  so  true, 
so  noble,  will  brighten  all  my  life." 

He  had  written  to  her  again,  and  she  had  answered,  gently, 
but  with  unflinching  resolution.  Again  he  wrote,  again  she 
re[)lied,  and  the  correspondence  went  ow  between  them.  Dur- 
ing that  winter  long  letters  from  every  city  in  Europe  came  to 
the  little  cottage  of  Henry  Otis.  And  so — they  hardly  knew 
how — they  grew  to  understand  one  another  as  they  might  never 
have  done  else.  She  learned,  as  the  months  went  by,  to  look 
for  the  coming  of  those  pleasant  white-winged  messengers  as 
gleams  of  sunshine  in  her  sober,  drab  colored  life.  As  for  him 
— how  eagerly  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  received  and  welcomed  the 
re[)lies,  only  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  knew. 

For  the  rest,  she  had  already  atoned  in  great  measure  for  the 
evil  of  the  past.  Her  letter  to  Sir  Peter,  her  humility,  her  forgive- 
ness, had  somehow  made  its  way  even  to  his  shrivelled,  icy 
heart.  The  unutterable  relief  of  knowing  she  was  not  dead, 
that  the  ghost  was  no  ghost,  of  receiving  intact  all  his  money 
back,  was  so  great,  that  l^e  was  .eady  to  promise  anything,  do 
anything.  She  asked  but  one  boon ;  that  he  would  forgive  and 
take  back  his  wife.  The  blame  of  the  masked  ball  was  all  hers 
— hers  alone.  Lady  Dangerfield  would  never  have  gone  but 
for  her  urging.  He  read  it,  his  dried-up  little  heart  soften- 
ing wonderfully  for  the  time.  He  finished  it,  he  ordered  his 
charger,  he  rode  forth  to  Scarswood  and  his  wife.  What  that 
conjugal  meeting  was  like  the  world  is  not  destined  to  know. 
Sir  Peter  was  relenf'ng  but  dignified,  very  dignified,  and  my 
lady,  hysterical,  frightened,  ready  to  eat  humble  pie  to  any 
extent,  resigned  the  reins  of  power  at  once  and  forever.  The 
calumet  of  peace  was  smoked — a  treaty  of  peace  issued  on 


ti 


H 

i"  ^    ■• 

H 

|,: 

M 

m  . 

53<5 


7/0 /r  /T  ENDED, 


sundry  conditions.  One  was  that  the  town  house  was  to  be 
leased;  no  more  I-ondon  seasons,  no  more  a  box  at  both 
Ijouses  ;  Scaiswood  and  her  husband  were  to  be  brightened  by 
lier  presence  the  year  round.  And  Jasi)er  Frankland  was  nevf.h 
to  come  down  again.  Indeed  the  less  company  the  Park  saw, 
Sir  i'eter  signified,  the  better  its  sovereign  lord  and  master  would 
like  it. 

Lord  Ruysland  had  gone  abroad.  There  was  always  a  little 
money  to  be  picked  up  at  iJaden-IJaden  and  Homburg  ;  living 
was  cheap,  'i'o  Uaden  and  Homburg  the  noble  earl  went,  ami 
enten.'d  the  lists  of  "  Birds  of  prey."  For  Cecil,  her  home  was 
still  at  Scarswood — in  the  capacity  of  governess,  vice  Miss 
llerncastle,  resigned. 

"  You  will  want  a  governess  for  Pearl  and  Pansy,  you  say, 
dinevra,"  she  said  (juietly,  the  day  preceding  her  father's  de- 
parture.    '*  Take  me." 

"  Queenie  !  "  my  lady  cried.     **  You  ?  " 

The  discovery  of  Queenic's  parentage  had  made  no  change  in 
Ginevra's  affections.  If  there  was  one  true,  pure,  womanly  feel- 
ing in  her  hard,  worldly,  selfish  heart,  it  was  for  La  Rcine  Blanc/ie. 

"  Yes — I,"  Lady  Cecil  answered  steadily.  "  1  ought  to  be 
capable — papa,  at  least,  spared  no  expense  on  my  education. 
I  have  been  like  the  lilies  of  the  field  long  enough — 1  have 
toiled  not,  r.cither  have  I  spun.  The  time  has  come  for  both. 
Papa  is  penniless,  an  earl  and  a  jiauper ;  every  rood  of  land 
he  once  owned  is  mortgaged  past  all  redemption.  What  would 
you  have  me  do  ?  Live  on  your  and  Sir  Peter's  bounty  ?  I 
shrink  miserably  from  the  thought  of  going  out  among  strangers, 
and  yet,  if  you  refuse,  there  is  no  other  alternative.  I  love  the 
children,  they  me,  and  1  will  conscientiously  do  my  best  for 
ihe:n.  As  I  liave  neither  testimonials  nor  references,"  smiling 
a  little  sadly,  "  I  shall  not  demand  a  very  high  salary,  if  you 
must  engage  some  one,  I  should  prefer  your  engaging  me. 
Consult  Sir  Peter,  and  let  me  k.iow." 

"  lUit,  Queenie — good  Heaven  !  what  will  Sir  Arthur — " 

"  Sir  Arthur  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  nn;  or  iny  ac- 
tions from  henceforth.  I  thought  I  had  explained  all  that  already. 
My  mind  is  made  up.  I  shall  earn  my  own  living  oomehow. 
Oil,  Cinevra,  when  we  think  of  her,  of  what  she  ought  to  be, 
of  all  1  have  been  forced  to  usurj),  need  I  blush  to  work?" 

The  result  was,  that  Lady  Cecil  Clive  was  engaged  as 
governess  to  Lady  Dangerneld's  children. 

"  Only  remember,  Queenie,  I  won't  have  the  world  know  it," 
Gincvra  said  ;  "it  is  enough  for  our  gossiping  neighbors,  that 


IfOlV  IT  ENDED. 


1011  se  was  to  be 
a  hox  at  both 
.'  brightened  by 
laiul  was  NKVKu 
y'  the  Park  saw, 
k1  master  would 

s  always  a  little 
omburg  ;  living 
earl  went,  and 
1,  her  home  was 
less,  vice  Miss 

'ansy,  you  say, 
her  father's  de- 


:le  no  change  in 
>,  womanly  leel- 

Rcinc  Blanche. 
" I  ought  to  be 
1  my  eclucation. 
inougli — 1  have 
come  for  both, 
y  rood  of  land 
.  What  would 
r's  bounty  ?  I 
nong  strangers, 
ve.  1  love  the 
do  my  best  for 
ences,"  smiling 
salary,     if  you 

engaging  me. 


537 


Arthur—" 
1  mc  or  my  ac- 
lU  that  already, 
ing  oomehow. 
e  ought  to  be, 
to  work  ?  " 
s   engaged   as 

vorld  know  it," 
leighbors,  that 


you  have  taken  a  whim  to  instruct  Pansy  and  Pearl.  I  am  un- 
speakably glad  you  are  going  to  remain.  I  shoul''  die." 
Drearily  this.  *'  Yes,  Queenie,  die,  shut  up  a!^)ne  in  a  dismal 
country  house,  year  in,  year  out,  with  Sir  Peffr  Dangerfield." 

So  it  was  settled,  and  the  new  life  begun.  'I'he  months  went 
by,  slowly  and  heavily  enough,  but  they  went,  and  the  Earl  of 
Ruysland's  daughter  was  fairly  earning  her  own  living. 

In  J-ondon,  Katherine  was  busy  too.  She  had  as  many 
music  pupils  as  she  could  attend,  and  she  worked  indeflitigably. 
iler  home  in  the  Otis  cottage  was  a  peaceful — a  pleasant  one 
— no  mother  could  have  loved  her  more  tenderly  than  Mrs. 
Otis,  no  brother  half  so  well  as  Henry  Otis.  She  had  her 
foreign  letters  too,  growing  strangely  precious,  and  as  winter 
warmed  into  spring  there  was  a  sudden  and  most  unlooked-for 
visit  from  their  writer. 

"  In  the  spring  a  young  man';  flincy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts 
of  love."  ^V'ell  not  (piite  that,  perhaps — Sir  Arthur's  tlioi',^hts 
turned  lightly  upon  few  things — least  of  all  that.  A  gri';;t 
longing  to  see  her,  to  hear  her,  had  come  upon  him  far  oft"  in 
Africa.  All  one  white  Eastern  night  he  lay  awake  watching  the 
yellow  stars  through  the  opening  of  his  tent  and  thinking  of  her. 
Next  morning  he  started  for  England.  All  the  rest — his  jour- 
ne}  ings  by  sea  and  land — was  but  a  feverish  dream,  until  the 
reality  came,  and  he  was  standing  in  the  little  cottage  i)arlor, 
holding  her  hand,  and  looking  into  the  sweet,  gravely  thought- 
ful eyes.  Was  she  growing  beautiful  he  wondered,  was  it  only 
the  blindness  and  glamour  of  love,  or — and  this  was  most  likely 
— was  it  the  serene  sweetness  of  an  altered  life  shining  through 
the  deep  gray  eyes  ? 

Again  he  pleaded — again  she  refused. 

"It  cannot  be — it  cannot !  Oh,  believe  it,  and  forget  me  I 
It  is  impossible  that  I,  after  all  that  is  past,  can  ever  marry." 

**  Always  the  past  I  "  he  cried,  bitterly.  "  Does  all  your  suf- 
fering, all  your  wron^,  all  your  atonement,  go  for  nothing  ?  If 
I  can  forget  the  past,  Katherine,  surely  you  may." 

"  You  forget  it  now.  In  the  years  to  come  you  may  be 
forced  to  remembe.  it.  And,  as  your  wife,  I  don't  think  I 
could  bear  that." 

"  Am  I  a  scoundrel  in  your  eyes  ?  "  he  cried  out,  a  passion 
in  his  voice  very  new  there,  "that,  having  won  you  for  my 
wife,  I  should  ever  give  you  cause  to  repent  it  ?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  that-  I  think  nothing  of  you  but  what  is 
generous  and  noble.  It  you  repented  I  know  well  /  should 
23* 


i 


538 


HOW  IT  ENDED. 


<      I 


^ 

[ 

f 

,. 

J 

-i". 

1 
1 

i 

^S 

m 

m'' 

^  \ 

^'i 

Ji^ 

never  sec  it,  if  you  could  help  it.  But  I  think  I  should  see  it 
for  all  that.  She  who  was  once  Helen  Hcrncastle,  can  never 
be  Ladv  Trecrenna." 

He  turned  away  from  her— such  keen  disappouitment,  such 
bitter  pain,  written  in  his  face,  that  her  hea't  relented.  She 
liked  him  so  nmch — so  much  that  she  began  to  wonder  if  the 
liking  were  not  loving.  It  was  hardly  possible  such  noble, 
disinterested,  enduring  love  as  his  should  not  beget  love. 

"Oh,  forgive  me,"  she  penitently  cried,  "if  I  have  wounded 
you  !  Indeed  I  d]d  not  mean  it  I  I  ifo  like  you  ;  but  it  is  for 
your  good,  your  happiness,  I  speak.     Cannot  you  see  that  ?  " 

"  I  can  see  nothing  out  that  without  you  my  life  will  all  go 
wrong — will  be  utterly  miserable.  Katherine,  I  love  you  ! 
^^'hat  more  can  I  say  ?     Love  me  in  return,  and  be  my  wife  !  " 

ile  held  out  his  arms.  For  a  moment  she  stood  irresolute 
— longing,  yet  dreading  to  go,  for  his  sake. 

"Come  to  me  !  "  he  pleaded — "my  bride  !  my  wife  !  For- 
get the  past  has  ever  been — it  shall  never  come  between  us  ! 
Come,  and  make  the  happiness  of  my  life  !  " 

And  then,  as  he  enfolded  her,  and  her  head  fell  on  his  shoul- 
der, Katherine  knew  that  peace  had  found  her  out  at  last. 

She  told  him  all  her  story — every  detail  of  her  life,  painting 
what  was  dark  in  its  darkest  colors.  He  should  never  marry 
her — not  knowing  the  worst.  Among  the  rest,  of  that  strange 
fancy  for  Redmond  O'Donnell. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  it,"  she  said.  "It  may  have 
been  part  of  the  fatality  that  has  been  at  work  from  the  fust  to 
care  for  the  two  men,  of  all  men,  who  could  never  care  for  me 
— Caston  Uantree  and  Redmond  0'I3onnell.  The  fust  was  but 
a  foolish  girl's  foolish  admiration  for  a  handsome  face  ;  the  last 
— ah  !  well,  it  viiglit  have  ripened  into  love,  but  it  is  gone  now 
— gone  forever.  1  would  never  give  you  or  any  man  oii  earth 
my  haiid,  if  niy  heart  might  not  go  with  it.  You  do  me  great 
honor.  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna,  in  asking  me^o  be  your  wife  ;  and 
as  you  trust  me,  so  you  will  fmd  me — your  loving  and  faithful 
wife  to  the  end." 

'I'hree  weeks  later,  in  the  lovely  April  weather.  Sir  Arthur 
Trjgenna,  Bart.,  and  A'fiss  Katherine  Dangerfield,  were  quietly 
married  in  London.  Married  from  Henry  Otis'  cottage,  in  a 
quiet  church  in  the  neighborhood.  There  was  but  one  brides- 
maid— Lady  Cecil  Clive.  And  in  her  white  robes,  her  gossa- 
mer veil,  !ier  bridal  blossoms,  the  sweet,  tender,  tremulous 
hap[)iness  of  her  face,  ivatherine  was  lovely.  Lord  Ruysland 
g  ive  away  the  bride.    He  had  come  express  from  Baden-Baden 


ffOlP'  IT  ENDED. 


539 


I  should  see  it 
stle,  can  never 

aintment,  such 
-elcnted.     She 

wonder  if  the 
e  such  noble, 
get  love, 
have  wounded 

;  but  it  is  for 
u  see  that?" 

ife  will  all  go 

I   love  you  ! 

I  be  my  wife  !  " 
ood  irresolute 

y  wife  !  For- 
e  between  us ! 

II  on  his  shoul- 
Lit  at  last. 

r  life,  painting 
d  never  marry 
)f  that  strange 

"It  may  have 
3in  the  fust  to 
iv  care  for  me 
e  first  was  but 
face  ;  the  last 
it  is  gone  now 
man  on  earth 
1  do  me  great 
our  wife  ;  and 
g  and  faithful 

?r,  Sir  Arthur 
,  were  quietly 
cottage,  in  a 
It  one  bridcs- 
es,  her  gossa- 
-r,  tremulous 
^rd  Ruysland 
JJadcn-Uadeii 


for  the  purpose.  And  the  great  Cornish  baronet  was  his  son- 
in-law  at  last. 

There  was  a  breakfast  at  the  cottage,  and  Mrs.  Otis  cried  a 
great  deal.  If  Henry  Otis  felt,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  like  keep- 
ing her  company,  no  one  there  discovered  it.  He  bore  it  with 
philosophy,  but  then  he  had  vowed  to  get  the  better  of  his  ill- 
starred  passion,  and  he  was  a  man,  whether  to  himself  or  oth- 
ers, to  keep  his  word. 

Immediately  after  the  ceremony,  the  "happy  pair,"  (words 
of  bitter  satire  often — words  true  in  the  highest  sense  here,) 
started  for  a  prolonged  Continental  tour.  Lord  Ruysland 
went  back  to  Germany.  Lady  Cecil  returned  to  Scarswood, 
to  my  lady's  dreary  wailings,  to  Sir  Peter's  prosy  companion- 
ship, to  the  weary  toil  of  training  the  obstreperous  twins  in  the 
rudiments  of  English,  French,  music,  and  drawing.  Toil,  dreary 
beyond  all  telling,  but  bravely,  thoroughly,  and  cheerfully  done. 
If  Redmond  O'Donnell's  bronzed,  somber  face,  and  stern  blue 
eyes  came  back  to  her  from  over  the  sea  a  hundred  times  a 
day,  his  name  never  once  passed  her  lips. 

She  sits,  this  April  afternoon,  under  the  hoary  oak,  her  hands 
jilaying  listlessly  with  her  pencils,  the  tender  green  of  earth, 
the  tender  blue  of  sky,  the  sunlit  loveliness  of  both  unseen. 
She  sits  thinking — she  is  far  away  in  the  past — so  far  that  she 
wakes  at  last  with  a  start.  Thinking  is  profitless  work,  and 
presently,  with  a  long,  tired  sigh,  she  takes  up  her  pencils  and 
Bristol  board  and  begins  to  work.  But  thought  follows  her 
even  here — the  landscajie  she  would  sketch  grows  blurred  be- 
fore her  eyes,  and  it  is  a  face  she  draws — a  face,  every  expres- 
sion, every  oudine  of  which  is  graven  on  her  heart. 

She  hears  a  footstep  approaching  up  the  avenue,  but  no  one 
in  whom  she  is  the  least  interested  ever  comes  to  Scarswood, 
so  shv:  does  not  look  up.  She  goes  on  with  her  work,  so  ab- 
sorbed that  she  forgets  all  about  the  intruder.  He  sees  her 
afar  off,  and  pauses  a  moment  to  look  at  her.  The  afternoon 
sunshine  gilds  the  sweet,  fair,  drooping  face,  and  kindles  into  a 
halo  the  bronze  hair.  Slowly  he  draws  nearer,  stepi)ing  on  the 
grass  that  he  may  not  disturb  her.  He  comes  close — so  close 
that  he  can  look  over  her  shoulder  and  see  what  it  is  that 
holds  her  so  absorbed.  Then  he  speaks,  close  beside  her,  and 
very  coolly  : 

"if  you  intend  that  for  a  fancy  face.  Lady  Cecil,  I  have 
nothing  to  say.  If  for  a  portrait,  then  I  nuist  tell  you  it  is 
most  egregiously  flattered." 

She  starts  up  with  a  cry ;  for  it  is  a  likeness  of  Redmond 


I 


w 

■^fi      • 

■I' 

1 

il 

f 

s  f 

i- 

iv, 

540 


IfOfV  IT  ENDED. 


fl-' 


O'Uonnell  she  is  drawing,  and  it  is  Redmond  O'Donnell  him- 
self who  stands  smihng  before  her. 

"  Ciood  day  to  you,  I-ady  Cecil" — he  hfts  liis  hat  as  tliough 
they  had  i)artcd  yesterday,  and  holds  out  his  hand — "  I  am 
afraid  '  have  startled  you  ;  but  not  so  greatly,  I  hope,  that  you 
cairv/t  shake  hands.  Ah!  thanks!''  As  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  does  she  lays  four  cold  tingers  in  his.  •'  1  thought  at 
fust  you  meant  to  refuse.  And  how  have  you  been  since  I 
saw  you  last  ?  "  He  takes  a  seat  in  the  rustic  chair,  which  ac- 
commodates three,  and  she  sink^  down,  scarcely  k. lowing 
whetlier  she  is  asleep  or  awake,  beside  him.  Her  heart  is 
throbbing  so  fast  that  for  a  moment  she  turns  giddy  and  faint. 
Sin,'  has  not  spoken  a  word — she  does  not  try  to  speak  now. 
'•  Weil,"  O'Donnell  says,  in  the  same  cool  tone,  "you  doi'it  look 
over  glad  to  see  me,  I  must  say.  This  is  what  comes  of  giving 
one's  friends  a  pleasant  surprise.  And  I  flattered  myself  you 
had  sufficient  friendly  interest  in  me,  or  if  not,  common  polite- 
ness enough  at  least,  to  say  you  were  glad  to  see  me  bac'v." 

"  I  am  glad."  Her  voice  is  not  steady — she  quivers  as  she 
sits.  "  But — it  was  so  sudden.  I  am  nervous,  I  sui)i)ose, 
and  little  things  startle  me."  She  lays  her  hand  on  her  heart 
to  sliU  its  tumultuous  beatings,  and  looks  up  at  him  for  the 
fust  time.  "  You  are  the  last  person  I  expected  to  see.  I 
th;)ii.;lit  you  were  at  Algiers." 

'•'\'\\^  last  person  we  expect  to  see  is  very  often  the  first 
l)crson  we  do  see,"  O'Donnell  answered,  still  eminently  self- 
possi.-ssed.  "1  haven't  been  at  Algiers,  and  I'm  not  goi.'iL'.  I 
shall  turn  my  sword  into  a  scythe,  my  ritle  into  a  plowshare,  and 
go  in  for  peace,  respectability,  and  pastoral  life.  I  have  been 
out  in  New  Orleans." 

"In  New  Orleans?" 

"Yes.  1  received  a  telegram  from  my  grandfather  after 
leaving  here,  telling  me  his  wife  and  son  were  dead,  and  re- 
(piesting  me  to  bring  Rose  back.  We  went.  We  have  been 
there  ever  since." 

She  was  beginning  to  recover  now.  She  drew  a  little  further 
from  him,  and  began  tracing  figures  in  the  grass  with  her  white 
parasol. 

"  Your  sister  is  well,  I  hope?  " 

"  My  sister  is  quite  well,  thank  you." 

"She  remains  in  New  Orleans  with  your  grandfather?" 

"She  is  in  London,  and  my  giandfather  is  dead." 

"  Indeed."  She  is  strangely  .a  a  loss  what  to  say,  something 
Vv-ry  unusual  with  Lord  Ruvsland's  hi;^h!ueU  daughter.     "I 


Donnell  him- 

lat  as  though 
and—"  i  am 
ope,  that  yoii 
:cly  knowing 
1  thought  at 
bet"!  since  I 
air,  which  ac- 
;ely   k. lowing 
Her  heart  is 
icly  and  faint, 
speak  now. 
on  doi'it  look 
nes  of  giving 
d  niyself  you 
nnion  polite- 
ne  bac'v." 
uivers  as  she 
,   I  suppose, 
on  her  Iieart 
him  for  tiie 
d  to  see.     I 

ften  the  first 
nincntly  self- 
lot  goi.'i!.-.  I 
owshare,  and 
I  ha\  e  been 


Ifather  after 
t;ad,  and  re- 
-'  liave  been 

little  further 
Lh  her  white 


ther  ?  " 

,  something 
ghter.     "  I 


n 


HOW  IT  ENDED. 


541 


hope  then  we  will  see  Miss  O' Donnell  down  at  Scarswood 

shortly." 

"\Vell,  yes.  I  suppose  Rose  will  comt.  She  is  very  anx- 
ious to  see  you.  In  fact,  she  wanted  to  accompany  me  on  this 
occasion,  but  I  objected." 

"Objected!     Why?" 

"  1  preferred  to  come  alone.  Other  people  may  be  very 
anxious  to  see  you  as  well  as  Rose — may  they  not  ?  And  you 
know  1  never  like  third  persons  during  my  interviews  with  you." 

She  still  looks  down  at  the  emerald  turf,  still  traces  figures 
with  her  parasol.     He  looks  at  her,  and  there  is  silence. 

"  You  have  heard  of  Sir  Arthur  Tregcnna's  marriage  ?  "  she 
says  at  length  with  a  sort  of  effort.  Women  are  always  the 
first  to  break  these  embarrassing  pauses.  "  No  doubt  he  sent 
you  word  ?  " 

"He  sent  me  no  word — how  could  he?  He  thought  with 
you  1  was  in  Algeria.  Still  I  heard  of  it — from  whom  do  you 
tiiink  ?     Our  mutual  friend,  Charlie  Delamere." 

"  Ah  !  Charlie,"  with  a  smile  ;  "  he  knew  your  address  then  ?  " 
.  "  Yes — after  six  months  of  Louisiana,  I  grew  sick  for  news 
of  England  and  my  friends.  I  did  not  care  to  write  to  any  of 
(hose  friends  direct  for  sundry  reasons,  so  I  sent  a  line  to 
Chaiiie.  I  got  all  the  news  1  wished  immediately — Sir  Arthur's 
marriage  among  the  rest.  He's  a  fine  fellow,  and  in  spite  of 
the  Miss  Herncastle  episode,  his  wife  suits  hhn.  She  s//i/s  him 
—all  is  said  in  that,  they  will  be  happy." 

'•  I  hope  so,"  she  answered  softly. 

"  Your  father  is  in  Germany,  Lady  Cecil?" 

"  He  is  always  in  Germany  of  late — he  seems  to  make  it 
his  home.     Poor  papa  !"     A  sigh. 

"  And  you,"  the  bl"e  eyes  that  can  be  so  keen,  so  hard,  so 
steely,  so  tender,  alternately,  are  watching  her  with  a  light  she 
feels,  but  cannot  meet.  '*  And  you  still  reside  with  your  cousin 
and  Sir  Peter.  I  am  glad,  by  the  bye,  that  they  are  reconciled. 
Doesn't  the  life  strike  you  as  rather  a  dull  one?" 

"  Not  [larticularly.  I  hope  I  have  common-sense  enough  to 
know  life  cannot  be  all  sunshine  and  roses  for  any  of  us.  Scars- 
wood  is  always  a  i)leasant  place,  and  I  am  too  busy  to  find 
much  time  for  idle  rejnnings.  Work  is  a  boon — I  have  found 
that  out.  1  am  the  children's  governess,  now,  you  know.  So," 
with  an  eftbrt  to  change  the  subject,  "you  have  given  up  all 

'  1  rejoice  at  that !    How 


Algi 
is  Mr.  LutYerly  ?' 


mty 


,'rty 


'  ^1 


Very  well,  and   strongly   matrimonially   inclined.     He  is 


If 


542 


HOIV^  IT  ENDED. 


'8^ 


down  with  me,  awl  fione  to  the  Silver  Rose  to  see  his  old 
swcijti.eart.  1  believe  a  marriage  will  follow  in  the  fulhiess  of 
time.  And  so  you  are  governess  to  the  twins — terrible  drudgery, 
I  should  fancy — and  practise  drawing  in  the  intervals.  Let  me 
have  another  iook  at  my  portrait — clever,  perhaps,  as  a  work  of 
art,  but,  as  f  said  bi;fore,  absurdly  flattered  as  a  Ukeness.  You 
do  thuilc  of  me  then  sometimes,  Queenie?" 

The  old  pet  name !  A  faint  rose-pink  flush  deepened  all 
over  the  fair,  pearfy  face. 

"  1  think  of  all  my  friends — what  an  opinion  you  must  have 
f^f  my  memory,  and  I  have  a  jirivate  gallery  of  their  portraits. 
I'lease  give  me  my  sketch  back — it  is  easier  for  you  to  criticise 
than  to  do  better." 

'*  A  rule  which  applies  to  all  criticism,  I  fancy.  I'll  give  you 
the  sketch  back  on  one  condition — that  I  may  give  you  myself 
with  it  !  " 

"Captain  O'DonncU!" 

"  Lady  Cecil !  " 

The  faint  carnation  was  vivid  scarlet  now.  She  started  up, 
but  lie  caught  both  her  hands  and  held  her.  The  bright  blue 
eyes,  full  of  piercing,  laughing  light,  looked  up  into  the  startled 
brown  ones.  Not  much  fiercenei  5 — not  much  sternness  there 
now. 

'•  What  do  you  mean,  sir !  Let  me  go.  Here  come  the 
children — pray,  let  me  go  !" 

"Let  them  co.ne  ! "  cries  this  reckless  young  Irishman. 
"Let  all  the  world  come,  if  it  likes.  I  shall  not  let  you  go 
until  you  promise.  You  like  me  excessively — oh  !  it's  of  no 
use  denying  it — you  know  you  do,  but  not  one  thousandth  part 
as  I  like  you.  And  I  want  you  to  marry  me.  It  will  not  be 
so  vrry  much  more  stupid  than  vegetating  at  Scarswood  and 
teaching  the  nine  parts  of  speech  to  Pansy  and  Pearl.  Come, 
Q.ieenie  !  We  luive  been  in  love  with  each  other  pretty  nearly 
seven  years..  They  say  the  certain  cure  for  love  is — matri- 
mony.     Let  us  try  it." 

''Captain  O'Donnell,  let  me  go." 

"  Not  until  yon  i)romise.  Queenie,  I  mean  it.  I  have  come 
all  the  way  from  New  Orleans  to  say  this.  I  love  you — be  my 
wife.  Since  you  can  bear  up  under  the  drudgery  of  a  gover- 
ness' life,  you  can  endure  to  be  the  wife  of  a  poor  man.  The 
question  is — will  you  try?" 

"  I  would  have  tried  it  six  years  ago,  if  Redmond  O'Donnell 
had  given  me  the  chance.  I  would  have  tried  it  eight  months  ago, 
if  his  pride  had  not  stood  between  us.     I  am  not  afraid  of  pov- 


i  I 


see  his  old 
he  fullness  of 
ble  dnulgery, 
als.  Let  me 
as  a  work  of 
iceness.    You 

deepened  all 

u  must  have 
eir  portraits. 
)u  to  criticise 

I'll  give  you 
e  you  myself 


le  started  up, 
e  bright  blue 
3  the  startled 
ernness  there 

re  come  the 

ig  Irishman, 
t  let  you  go 
h  !  it's  of  no 
usandth  part 
t  will  not  be 
arswood  and 
:arl.  Come, 
pretty  nearly 
e  is — matri- 


I  have  come 

you — be  my 

of  a  gover- 

nian.     The 

1  O'Donnell 
months  ago, 
fraid  of  pov- 


HOIV  IT  ENDED. 


543 


erty — perhaps  because  I  was  born  to  it — poverty  and  servi- 
tiicle  were  my  birthright.  Does  Captain  O'Donnell  forget 
])rinccly  blood  flows  in  his  veins,  and  in  mine — that  of  a  wait- 
ing-maid ?  " 

"That  is  meant  as  a  reproach.  Well,  my  stiff-neckedncss  in 
the  past  deserves  it.  liut  think  again,  Quecnie — how  you  have 
been  brought  up — that  luxury  has  been  the  very  breath  you 
drew — think  what  marriage  with  a  poor  man  means.  Six 
stuffy  rooms — one  grimy  maid-of-all-work — one  silk  dress  a 
year — no  carriage — no  opera — no  society — the  beautiful  and 
poetical  of  life  a  dream  of  the  past.     Think  !  " 

"  I  do  think.  I  think  you  want  to  talk  me  into  saying  no — 
5'ou  fear  I  may  take  you  at  your  word.  Very  well,  sir — I  say 
it.     I  am  deeply  honored  by  your  offer,  and  beg  to  decline." 

He  drew  her  to  him — close,  closer.  If  those  innocent  twins 
arc  anywhere  in  the  visible  horizon  now,  they  stand  strong 
chance  of  being  amazed  and  scandalized. 

"  Queenie,  my  darling — whom  I  never  hoped  to  hold,  to 
kiss  like  this — you  really  love  me  well  enough  to  endure  poverty 
and  obscurity  for  my  sake.  You  will  be  my  wife  and  never 
re[)ent.     You  will  go  with  me  and  resign  everything?" 

"  Everything  !    Oh,  Redmond  !  I  shall  have_jw/ .-'" 

And  then — the  twins  are  drawing  nearer — their  howls  can  be 
heard  through  the  trees,  Lady  Cecil  has  some  consideration 
for  their  artless  youth,  if  Le  Beau  Chasseur  has  none,  and 
laughing,  and  blushing,  and  looking — oh  !  so  lovely — withdraws 
to  the  extreme  end  of  the  rustic  seat. 

"  No,  Captain  O'Donnell — not  one  inch  nearer — I  insist  upon 
it !  My  hearing  is  excellent — any  remarks  you  may  have  to 
make  I  can  hear  at  this  distance  perfectly  well.  And  the  other 
jjerformance  is  not  necessary.  Pearl  and  Pansy  are  coming, 
and  you  know  the  proverb — '  Little  pitchers  have  great  cars.'" 

"  Confound  Pearl  and  Pansy  !  Queenie,  you  are  sure  you 
will  never  repent  marrying  a  penniless  soldier  of  fortune  !" 

"  I  tell  you  I  like  poverty.  How  stupid  some  people  are — 
forcing  one  to  repeat  the  same  thing  over  and  over.  I  prefer 
it  decidedly — yes,  I  do — don't  look  like  that — I  do." 

"Ah!"  O'Donnell  said,  gravely,  "I  am  sorry  for  that.  It 
may  be  painful  for  you  to  hear,  Lady  Cecil,  but — I  have  had  a 
fortune  left  me  !" 

"  Redmond  1 "  starting  up,  indignantly.     "  A  fortune  !  " 

"  Yes,  my  love — don't  let  your  angry  passions  rise  if  you 
can  helj)  it — a  fortune.  M.  De  Lansac  died  three  months  ago, 
and  divided  his  fortune  equally  between  Rose  and  me.     It  was 


544 


HOW  IT  ENDED, 


m 

if 

'>'  ''vn 

i 

\ 


It    i  ( 


a  fortune  of  two  million  dollars.  A  pittance,  perhaps,  as  com- 
))ared  with  the  inheritance  of  Sir  Arthur  Tregenna  ;  but  to 
])overty-loving,  humble  individuals  like  Lady  Cecil  Clive  and 
Redmond  O'Donnell,  sufficient  for  the  bread  and  cheese  of 
life,  a  page  in  buttons,  and  tmo  silk  dresses  per  annum.  My 
love  !  my  love  !  " 

Where  i:>  the  distance  between  them  fioia? — and  the  twins 
are  standing  petrified,  open-mouthed  and  eyed,  at  what  they 
beiiold  not  six  yards  off. 

"  I  can  give  you  wealth  as  well  as  love.  Thank  God  for  the 
ha[)piness  He  has  given  me  at  last  ! " 


The  light  fades  from  the  scenes  and  the  faces  we  know — the 
hour  has  come  to  part.  One  by  one  they  gliile  into  the  shadowy 
distance  and  are  lost  to  you  and  me  forever.  Is  any  one  who 
has  followed  their  fortunes  sorry  to  let  them  go,  I  wonder — to 
say  forever  farewell  ? 

Take  one  last  look,  before  the  curtain  falls,  to  rise  no  more. 
Of  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Dangerfield,  dragging  out  their  married, 
not  mated,  lives,  in  the  grandeur  and  dullness  of  Scarswood.- 
Of  Lanty  Lafferty,  a  married  man,  with  "Shusan"  for  his  wife, 
the  prosi)erous  ])roprietor  of  a  "public."  Of  Henry  Otis  and 
his  mother,  prosperous  in  London,  with  Katherine  and  his 
hopeless  love  already  a  dream  of  the  i^ast.  Of  Squire  Talbot, 
who  hopes  very  soon  to  bring  home  a  mistress  to  Morecambe 
— a  mistress  as  yet  known  as  Rose  O'Donnell.  Of  Captain 
and  Lady  Cecil  O'Donnell,  happy  beyontl  all  telling  of  mine — 
h:ii)py  in  that  perfect  wedded  love  rarely  found  upon  earth. 
And  lastly,  of  Sir  Arthur  and  Lady  Tregenna,  with  the  past 
but  a  dark,  sad  dream  they  never  recall,  loving  eadi  other, 
trusting  each  other,  as  great  hearts  and  noble  souls  do  love  and 
tiust.  They  are  still  abroad,  in  pleasant  wanJeiiiig  through 
])LMsant  lands.  One  day  they  will  return  to  Cornwall,  and 
among  all  the  mistresses  that  in  the  last  four  hundred  years 
have  ruled  it  in  hoary  old  Tregenna,  none  will  be  more  be- 
loved, none  more  worthy  of  all  love  and  honor,  than  she  who 
was  once  Helen  Herncastle.  Her  face  lloats  before  me  as  I 
write  the  words,  noble,  tender,  womanly,  peaceful,  and  happy, 
at  last.     Let  the  name  that  began  this  story  end  it — Kathb- 

KINE. 

THE   END. 


Iiaps,  as  com- 
Mina  ;  but  to 
cil  Clive  and 
iicJ  cheese  of 
annum.     My 

and  the  twins 
:it  what  they 

c  God  for  tlie 


vc  know — the 

J  the  shadowy 

any  one  who 

I  wonder — to 

rise  no  more, 
their  married, 
)f  Scarswood. 
"  for  his  wife, 
cnry  Otis  and 
•rine  and  his 
iquire  Talbot, 
J  Morecambe 
Of  Captain 
ing  of  mine — 
1  upon  earth, 
ivith  the  past 
;  eaJi  other, 
s  do  love  and 
.■riTig  through 
Jornwall,  and 
imthed  years 
be  more  be- 
than  she  who 
efore  me  as  I 
1,  and  happy, 
1  it — Kathb- 


Crs'^.^-, 


1874. 


.••. 


1874. 


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)ivines I 

by  lioppin.    i 


CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


A  \c\v  Kclltion. 

Aniotif;  the  numerous  ctliiions  of  tlie  works  of  this  greatest  of  En^- 
li.-h  Novelists,  there  has  not  been  until  n()Wfl;/<'that  entirely  satisfies  the 

public  demand Without  excejition,  tliey  each  liave  sonic 

stionj;  distinctive  objection,  .  .  .  eillier  the  shape  and  dimensions 
of  the  volumes  are  unliandy — or,  the  tyi»e  is  small  and  indistinct  or, 
the  paper  is  tlnn  and  poor — or,  the  illustrations  (iT  they  have  any]  are 
unsatisfactory — or,  the  binding  is  bad — or,  the  price  is  too  hi^^h. 

A  new  edition  is  tww,  how^'ver,  publi.shed  by  G.  W.  Carleton  &  Co. 
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approval  of  the  reading  community  in  other  popular  works. 

The  illustrations  are  by  the  original  artists  chosen  by  Charles 
Dickens  him^elf  .  .  .  aiid  the  j)apcr,  printing,  and  bmding  are 
of  the  most  attractive  and  substantial  character. 

Th.»  publication  of  this  beautiful  new  edition  was  commenced  in 
April,  1873,  and  will  be  comj)leted  in  20  volumes — one  novel  each 
montii — at  the  extremely  reasonable  price  of  $1.50  per  volume,  as 
follows : — 


I 


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6 — nARNAIJY  RUDOE. 
7 — NICHOI-A.S  NICKl.EBY. 
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II — MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 

12— OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 

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18 — U.NCOMMKRCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

19 — EDWiy  DROOD,   ETC. 

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Im>  fuunil  chapter!  U|>on — 

Attention  in  Convkiuiation.— 8at- 
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IHM.—  I'DUTENKIW.— COMI'LIMKNTS.  — 
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Markieu  AND  Unmarried  Ladies. 

Uo  DO     Urntlemkn. 

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Trwki.lino  Ktiwuettk. 

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An  pxccfMlInKly  faRcinatini?  work  for  ton<hiiiK  not  only  the  l)oRinner,  but  for 
pcrfi'ctinp  every  one  in  theRC  three  most  dosirntiln  accoinpiiHhnieiitii.  For  youth 
thin  iMMjk  s  both  intfrestiiiK  and  vnluabiu  ;  und  forailults,  whtahtir  |)r'<fos8i<)iially 
or  Roclally  it  is  abook  that  tlii-y  onnnot  disiionse  with.  *^*  I'rice  $1.50.  Aint^ug 
the  ct)ntem»  will  bo  found  chiiptor?  upon — 

Uraoino  ii  Thinkiko.— Langdaue.— |Say.— What  not  to  Say.— How 
W^oRDB,  Sen rKNCFjj.  ii  Conhtiiuction. 
What  to  Avcid.— Lkttkb  Writinu.— 
rRONUNciATiox.— E.\phekhion.— Tone 
Krlioious  Keadinos.— The  BrnLK.— 

I'RAYEUS. — DRAMATICllEADINOa.— The 

AcTTOB  &  Header.— Foundations  for 
Cbatoby    and  Speakino.— What  to 


TO 

riEoiN.-  Cautionh.-Dei.iveuy.  -Writ- 
INO  A  Speech. — First  Lehkons. — Pub- 
lic SiKAKiNQ.— Delivery.  Action. 
Oratory  of  the  Pvlpit.- Compohi 
tion.— The  Uar.— Keadino  of  Wit  it 

IIirMOR.— THEPlaTFOBM.— CONBTRUO 

tion  of  a  Speech. 


Thete  tcorki  are  the  most  perfect  of  their  kiml  ever  piiblinhcd ;  fveah.  lermWle 
j.ynii-huinnred.  entertdininij,  and  reailitble.  Everu  person  vj'  taste  gtivuld  po$ 
tew  them,  and  cannot  be  otheriche  thnv  delighted  with  them. 

fBT"  A  beautiful  new  minatiire  edition  of  those  very  populiir  oooks  has  jimt 
t»*tn  pnbliHhcd,  cntitlc<l  "The  Diamond  F.dition,"  tlirti!  litile  voluinis.  e!e 
jjfciitlj  phnU!<l  on  tinti'd  papT.   oiid  hondsnmely  hnniid   in  n  Imx.     Price  $.':.0(). 

•,•  These  books  are  all  sent  by  mall,  pvHtage/ree,  on  rwuipt  of  price,  liy 

3,  W,  CAELETON  &  CO.,  rublishpr?.  Madir.on  Square,  Now  York. 


OOK8, 

!ound. 


i1  nnd  rtitcrtHin  ng 
to  fvcry  ciiio  wild 
to  K|>|K-ar  to  advan 
>iil<l  rend  it,  .^liiily  It 
il  them  to  liriMk  up 
IK  tho  cuniento  will 

kIKNT.-BACniriCK*. 
-DlNNKB       COW- 

niTY.— iTHCnuK.— 
CCT     Lanouauk. — 

—  MiSfELLANKOni 
NUUAOlCa. 


ilcty. 

liiitit,  and  nnncdut«i 
<1  inanni-rH,  ntiil  the 
r'lth  liiinioroiiN  iljnit- 
•,»i'rlce   $1.76. 

n. 

-CAnviNo. 

HEll— IlALIJI. 

J.  — 1'I(!NI<;8. 

.  — DANfJiB. 

ICALH. 

DAIIKMENTB. 

[ONIKH 

lUHBEH. 

!tlCNI£.N'11i. 

^UETTK. 

VK. 

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i  Spcnking:. 

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TO  Bay.— How  to 
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ti»r  Lkhkonh. — I'uB- 
Ki.ivEUY.    Action. 

IMl.I'IT.-CnMrOHI 

Keai)in(»  or  Wit  iSi 
f  roB.M.  —  C'o.nstruo 

i/icil ;  freafi,  tenitWle 
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mliir  onoks  hiw  jiiKt 
little  volumes,  ele 
i  t»)t.  Price  $:iM). 
|>t  of  price,  Ity 

lare,  Now  York. 


Mary  J.  Holmes'  Works. 


I. -TF:MrF.5?T  A    n  SUNSHINE. 
j    t  -KNC.I.I.SIl  OKfllAN'.S. 

I    ).— no.MKSIK.AI)  ON  IIM.I.SIDK. 

I 

4.-'l,KNA  KIVKKS. 
^.-MKADOW   HKOOK. 
6.— DORA  DKANK. 
y.-COlI.SIN  MAUDK. 


'  8— .MARIAN  r.RAY. 
g-HARKNKSS  ani>  PAVI    ('.111 
ic  -HIM. II    WORTHINOION 
II  -CAMKRON   I'RIDK. 
la.-ROSK   MATHKR. 
13.— F.THKI.VN'S   MI.STAKE. 
14.— MII.I.HANK. 
,i5.-EI)NA   UROWNINO. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE    PRESS. 

"Mr».  HnltiieV  ttories  are  iinivfrMlly  read.  Her  admirer*  are  mimlierless. 
•She  i«  in  many  re^perlH  without  a  rival  in  the  world  of  fiction.  Her  characters 
are  aiw.iys  lifc-like,  and  she  ni.ike<(  thcin  talk  and  act  like  human  IteinK^i  Nulijei.t 
to  the  xanic  emotions,  swayed  by  the  same  passions,  and  actuated  by  the  s.inie 
motives  whirh  are  common  among  men  and  women  of  every  day  existence.  Mrs. 
Holmes  is  very  happy  in  portraying  ilonieslic  life.  Old  and  youii);  peruse  licr 
Htories  with  great  delight,  for  she  writes  in  a  style  that  all  can  comprehend."  — 
AVjK  i'lit-Jk  Wtekly. 

"Mrs.  Holmes'  stofles  are  all  of  a  ilomentic  rhararter,  and  their  interest, 
therefore,  is  not  so  intense  as  if  they  were  more  hii^hly  seasoned  willi  sensational 
ism,  but  it  is  of  a  healthy  and  abiding  character.  Almost  any  new  IxKjk  which  her 
publisher  miuht  choose  to  aiiiioimce  from  her  pen  would  gel  an  immediate  and 
gencr.d  reading.  The  interest  in  her  tales  begins  at  mice,  and  is  manilaincd  to 
the  close.  Her  sentiments  are  so  sound,  her  sympalliii  s  so  warm  uinl  ready, 
and  her  knos\lfd(;e  of  manners,  character,  and  the  v  .cicd  incidents  of  ordinary 
lite  is  so  thorough,  that  she  '\ould  find  it  ilifTicult  lo  write  any  other  than  an 
exce"enl  tale  if  she  were  to  try  it." — Boston  Biinntr, 

"Mrs.  Holmes  is  very  amusing:  has  a  quick  and  true  sense  of  himior,  .1 
sympalhL-»ic  tone,  a  pcrceptiim  of  character,  and  a  familiar,  attr.^<'..»  •  style, 
pleasantly  adapted  lo  the  comprehension  and  the  taste  of  '.hat  Urge  lUss  of 
AnicnLan  readers  for  whom  fashionable  novels  and  ide^i  fantasies  have  n>> 
■:harm." — lltnry  T.  Tucktrman. 


\!Sf~  The   relumes   are  all   handsomely   printed   and   bound   in   cblh, — irlj 
rverywhete,  and  sent  by  maW,  /ifsdt^e  /r ft,  on  receipt  of  price  [91.50  eaih]    Ly 

Q.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Afadison  Square^  Nnv  York. 


>."'l 


